Literary Hearts
by doctorlit
Summary: When a new keybearer is awoken, he becomes separated from his home world. He journeys to discover his destiny as well as to confront his past, using books as the connection between worlds.
1. Prologue: Dive to the Heart

**_Kingdom Hearts: Literary Hearts_**

Dive to the Heart

Aster was dreaming. He stood on a pedestal whose surface was solid, but appeared to be a stained glass window. The bottom of the column sank so far down that it disappeared into the blackness that surrounded Aster's vision. The top where he stood, however, was well-lit, though no light source was immediately obvious.

The stained glass image showed two men who seemed very much overdressed to Aster. They wore heavy-looking coats and bore serious expressions on their faces. The larger man was behind the thin one and bore a large hand-bag, like the traveling salesmen who occasionally came through Aster's town. The man in the foreground had a preoccupied look on his face, as though his image was taken while he was working a particularly difficult crossword in the Sunday paper.

"So much to do, so little time."

Aster whirled around to meet the speaker, but no one appeared. The platform and the darkness surrounding it were as empty as before.

"Take your time. Don't be afraid. The door is still shut."

The voice was not sound, but rather energy, energy that spoke directly to Aster, and Aster somehow understood the meaning.

In the center of the platform, a circle of light appeared, brighter than the light around it. Aster gazed upwards, but the source of the spotlight was so far up that he could not see it.

"Now, step forward. Can you do it?"

The energy voice was empowering. It filled Aster with the confidence and will to step into the light. He expected an immediate reaction once he had entered the light, but a long pause met him instead. Aster was just about to enter a deeper sleep and end the dream when the unknown speaker returned, this time a hint of sternness entering its voice.

"Your path has been set." And the stained glass floor shattered.

Aster plunged through what should have been the center of the column; no sign that there had ever been a column remained, save the glass shards that filled the air around him. Aster fell for hours before his feet landed on something solid.

Another pedestal. Exactly as before, but the window that Aster stood on bore a different image. This time, four figures stood in opposite corners of the picture. All four bore crowns on their heads; two kings and two queens. The royal figures were dressed in mail armor, just like in the fairy tales Aster used to read. The center of the glass was dominated by a great sandy-colored face that filled the entire window, making it impossible for Aster to make out its shape. Not a single shard of glass from the previous window had landed with Aster on the new one.

"You have been granted the power to fight." And a sword unlike any Aster had ever imagined was suddenly in his hand. It had appeared in a flash of light. The handle was a rectangle, with his right hand gripping a cylinder of metal through the center. Aster realized that if the rectangle were filled in, it would look exactly like a book bound in aged green leather. It was, however, composed of metal, as was the blue steel shaft that extended from the book shaped part forward, where the blade should have been. But the shaft was round, not sharp. At the end of the shaft, and at a right angle to the book-like pommel, were three extensions of blue metal, arranged in a pattern resembling the teeth of a key.

"Use this power to protect others, as well as yourself. There will be times you will have to fight."

As the voice continued speaking, motes of the surrounding black space seemed to coalesce into solid shadows on the glass floor. Then the shadows rose from the floor and took on solid forms. Each was identical. They shared a stooped, stunted body, like a horribly bent old man; sharp claws on the ends of weak-looking arms; and an entirely black coloration, only broken by a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring out mournfully from pin points on the round, exaggerated heads.

Aster might have considered them comical if they weren't slowly slipping towards him with a look of greedy hunger in those eyes. He instinctively placed the sword in front of him and grabbed the round shaft with his left hand. The shadows reached him, and began slashing at Aster with furtive swipes of their arms. Aster—or perhaps the sword itself—moved to impede each slash, keeping the shadows away from him. Aster cried out in his sleep when a sharp pain raked his ankle. He spun around just in time to see that a shadow—which had scratched his leg—was sinking back into the ground. Angrily, Aster brought the weapon down on the creature—and the sword bounced uselessly off the ground. Thinking they were retreating, Aster turned back to the main group to see them all sinking into two dimensions again. Aster sighed in relief.

His relief ended when the shadows began to walk around in this flat state and surround him.

Realizing they would keep this up forever, Aster chose one shadow that was just beginning to rise from the glass and struck it.

Although the sword appeared terribly blunt, the key teeth swiped through the shadow, breaking apart whatever body it had had. The black form dissipated, leaving six more rising up to meet Aster.

Aster, quickly understanding the shadows' attack pattern, hit three more in quick succession. Each vanished as completely as the first. Aster watched the remaining shadows disappear into the ground and congeal into a mass of darkness, which began to spread throughout the floor. Aster backed up, but the black pool spread too quickly. Aster was engulfed and vanished through the floor, into the calm warmth…

And regained himself on yet a third stained glass floor. This time, their were no people in the image at all, only a gold ring with letters inscribed across it, but Aster did not recognize the language.

"The closer you get to light, the greater your shadow becomes."

Aster did not understand. There was no light here, no more than had appeared at the other pedestals, the same ambient ability to see, only dream logic. He looked over his shoulder and saw

himself

as though one of the shadows had been stretched to fit over Aster's frame, the beady yellow eyes and the cruel talons.

And Aster's own darkness.

He could see it now, glaring at him from the solemn figure, and he knew what it meant he was screaming, screaming, backing away from the shadow, slipping off, falling…

"No?" asked the voice, both disappointed and unsurprised at once. "You prefer to run? To shy from the light? You are making him—all of them—stronger. Very well. You will approach the light from a distance. Yet you will approach it. And always remember—"

Aster was crying, in the dream and in real life. The air was close, too thin somehow, and Aster wanted to tear away his ears, or tell the voice it was wrong…

"You cannot run from your own heart."

Aster awoke in a closet.


	2. Unfamiliar

**_Kingdom Hearts: Literary Hearts_**

Chapter 1: Unfamiliar

Aster Holt awoke in a closet.

He realized that the whole experience had been a nightmare. Then came the realization that he was not in his bed, but an unfamiliar closet. And it was…cold. Colder than Aster had ever felt, even in the middle of winter. It _never_ got this cold, and Aster even seemed to be indoors! Some smell was in the air, too, like some medicine…

"Do you blame me for flunking you, boy" A voice spoke out from the other side of the door. It sounded like a very old man, which surprised Aster. Another voice answered right away, this one much younger, though definitely older than Aster.

"No sir! I certainly don't."

Aster glanced around. Suits were hung carefully. Shoes and ragged boots sat in the corner. It was a perfectly normal closet. But it wasn't a closet in _his_ house.

A piece of paper ruffled outside, then, "What would you have done in my place? Tell the truth, boy." But before the conversation could continue, Aster turned the knob and stood before the two figures.

He had been in a bedroom closet. The "boy," who looked a quite a few years older than Aster, was seated on the bed. Even seated, he appeared tall somehow, like he was trying to keep normal proportions, but couldn't fit the mold. He looked at Aster curiously, but calmly, as though it didn't strike him as terribly out of the ordinary that a strange boy had just entered the room from a closet.

In a leather armchair closer to the door was an old man. He appeared about Old Man Warner's age, although sitting wrapped up in that blanket and wearing a tattered bathrobe. The bathrobe exposed a hairy, knobby chest that only added to Aster's embarrassment. Unlike Mr. Warner, the man Aster saw now seemed much frailer, less spirited.

Except for the disbelieving scowl that had fallen over his face in the last half-second.

"Boy!" This time, he was addressing Aster rather than the young man on the bed. "What are you doing? Hiding in my closet!"

"I…I'm not sure…"

"Not sure! What's your name?"

"Aster Holt, sir."

Well, Mr. Holt, the Dean will hear that you've been sneaking into professor's private-"

"Wait Mr. Spencer," said the boy, rising quickly from the bed. "I don't think he's a student here. He's too young, sir." Now that he was standing, the great difference in their heights was quite obvious.

Mr. Spencer seemed much taken aback; Aster definitely appeared too young to be a high school student.

"Please, sir!" Aster said quickly, "I didn't come here on purpose! I just woke up, and I was here! I was in my bedroom last night…" He trailed off, feeling that babbling wouldn't help this already strained situation.

"Well…well that's all right then," said Mr. Spencer, seeing the honest panic in Aster's face. "Perhaps you simply had a bout of sleepwalking."

"To be honest, sir, I think this was some prank. Those don't look like pajamas; in fact I've never seen clothes like them before. Nothing like them at all." A note of outright interest had crept into his voice.

Aster looked down and gasped. He had never seen these clothes before. The shirt was too large—he was practically swimming in it. It had short sleeves, but the shirt trailed far past his waist and was patterned with horizontal green bands crossed with vertical blue ones. His shorts felt like denim, but were pure white.

"These…these aren't even mine!" Now Aster was beginning to panic. "What's going on, where am I, what's-"

"Easy boy! We'll get you home right away—his parents must be worried sick—now, boy, where do you live?"

Holden told Mr. Spencer the name of the town he had lived all his life.

Mr. Spencer frowned, then glanced at his student, who looked equally puzzled. "Where is that?" he asked.

"Well…well, I've never been outside of my town before; I don't know how to get there…"

"But…it is in Pennsylvania, right?" asked the boy.

Aster only stared. "What's that?"

Mr. Spencer and his student exchanged a worried glance, which did not go undetected by Aster. "Where am I _now_?"

"At Pencey Prep," answered the boy immediately. "In Pennsylvania."

Aster stared, uncomprehending.

"The _state _of Pennsylvania?" volunteered Mr. Spencer.

"…Pencil what?"

"Boy," Mr. Spencer was addressing the other boy again. "Show him the map! From the bookshelf there." He carefully slid pill bottles, which appeared to be made of some soft glass, off of a large dusty paper. He brought the paper over to Aster, who, at first recognized what he was looking at. It was a colorful representation of North America. Aster had seen such maps peddled by traveling salesmen, though no one in town ever bought one. Supposedly, those maps showed the locations of all the villages. This map, however, showed the familiar landmass divided up into colored pieces of different sizes and convoluted states.

"Well…it would be about in the middle here," he said, circling with his finger a space stretching from Iowa to Wyoming.

The other two were dumbstruck. "He doesn't know. Really doesn't" whispered the younger one.

"Well it seems the boy has suffered some kind of memory lapse," began Mr. Spencer. "And as you know, there isn't the right kind of doctor for that here in Pennsylvania. And as it seems you are undoubtedly going back home, I think it best if you take Mr. Holt along with you." He turned to Aster. "The doctors there will help you remember where you live."

"I remember where I live just fine," said Aster. It's this place, this…Pennsylvania…that doesn't match up."

But Mr. Spencer had turned back to his student and was ignoring Aster now.

"How do you _feel_ about all this, boy? I'd be very interested to know. Very interested."

"You mean about my flunking out of Pencey and all? Oh, not much. I mean it doesn't really matter too much to me. Not yet anyway. Not much, I guess."

"You _will_. You will, boy, you will when it's too late."

The student in the red hat sighed, looking defeated and resolved all at once.

"The thing is, I have to get going now. I have quite a bit of equipment at the gym I have to get to take home with me." The boy paused, putting his hand on Mr. Spencer's shoulder. "Please don't worry about me. Okay?"

The same ambiguous look of success and failure appeared on the elder man's face. Aster and the other boy each shook Mr. Spencer's hand.

"Take care of your grippe, now," the student called back to his teacher.

"Good luck, boys," came the reply.

Aster began following the other boy as he started to walk back to Pencey, down a road lined with small houses. The boy soon spoke.

"So, Aster. I'm Holden Caulfield. What happened back there? I could tell you really don't know how you're here and all, but…?"

"I'm still not really sure," said Aster, his teeth chattering in a winter wind that had never reached his house. Everything is just crazy! Even these clothes. I've never seen them—wait." He had slowed down, his teeth even ceasing their motion as the revelation washed over him. Holden stopped and turned to watch him.

"I was wearing these in the dream."

"The dream you said you had before you woke up in there?"

"Yeah."

"Hm. Well, at least I convinced Spencer you weren't from around here." The pair started walking again.

"Oh," said Aster. "By the way—not to sound rude, but I am in high school. I'm sixteen."

Holden smiled. "Yeah, so am I. I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. I was counting on Spencer not to remember how goddam tall I am. He's an ok guy, but he can be a real phony sometimes. Really. But tell me about this dream." Aster described it to him, but started to choke up a bit at the end. He couldn't describe what he had seen, how he had seen, but was soon distracted from his tale as they reached Pencey.

"What is it?" asked Holden, as Aster goggled at the campus structures.

"They—they're huge!"

"What—the dorms?

"I've never seen buildings that big before!"

Holden started to laugh. "Just wait till we get to New York."


	3. Preparing for the Journey

Author's Note: Before I continue, I would like to thank xXAxisXx for my one and only review so far.

Also, I forgot to mention that, besides my main character, pretty much everything else in this story so far belongs to either Disney/Square or J. D. Salinger.

Finally, because the settings of my story are taken from novels and follow them at least somewhat correctly, be warned that spoilers will be present. From now on, when I introduce a new setting, the first chapter in which it appears will have a note at the end saying which book it is from, in case you want to read it for yourself before continuing my story (and I certainly suggest you do; I can't fit the entire plots in, and those stories are _much_ better than mine).

**_Kingdom Hearts: Literary Hearts_**

2: Preparing for the Journey

Aster and Holden reached a building with a plaque reading _Ossenburger Memorial Wing_. Holden got the door open and held it open for Aster.

"Thanks," Aster said, stepping inside.

"Listen, I know you're anxious to find out what happened and all," said Holden, taking off his coat and donning a red hunting cap, "but I can't go back home until Wednesday."

"That's all right. Where did you get that hat?" Aster asked.

"In New York this morning. Yeah, I know," he continued in response to the confusion written on Aster's face. "If you had showed up yesterday, you could have gone today. It's really goddam perfect."

"But instead, I have to wait two more days. Great!"

"Three days."

"Huh?"

"Three days. It's Saturday, remember?"

"No, yesterday was. I mean, when I went to bed…oh God…"

Holden was starting to feel even sorrier for the poor kid. He was trying to think of what to say when a pimply face parted the shower curtains and glanced around. The newcomer winced at the sight of Aster, but relaxed when they did not recognize him.

"Oh, sorry," said the newcomer. His voice was filled with boredom. He climbed into the dorm room and started walking around, stealing glances at Aster, but never looking at him directly. "Thought ya were Stradlater."

"This is Ackley, from the next dorm over. Stradlater is my roommate; Ackley hates his guts."

"Yeah," said Ackley offhandedly. "How was the fencing? We win, or what?"

"Nobody won." Holden was looking at Aster rather than Ackley.

"What?" Ackley grabbed a picture of a girl from Holden's dresser, finally making him turn to Ackley, bristling.

"Nobody won."

Ackley set down the picture—at the wrong end of the dresser, Aster noticed—and asked, "_No_body won. How come?"

"I left the goddam foils and stuff on the subway." Holden was still looking at Aster, and looked down, embarrassed. Aster was only trying to come up with what a subway was—and figure out why the two schoolmates were being so defensive with each other. In fact, it seemed as though neither wanted to talk to the other at all.

"Ya _lost_ them, ya mean?"

"I had to keep getting up to look at the goddam map! Look, this is Aster by the way." It was an abrupt way to change the subject, but Holden seemed desperate. Aster was about to say hi when Ackley continued, stepping closer.

"Think they'll make ya pay for 'em?"

"I don't know, and I don't—look, Aster's coming home with me, and we need to get ready, so would you mind Ackley kid?" Now Holden really seemed to be trying to annoy Ackley; even with Holden's height, Ackley definitely appeared older, so calling him a kid seemed a little much to Aster.

But Ackley was only persuaded to change the subject. "Where'd ya get that hat?"

"New York."

"How much?"

"A buck."

"Ya got robbed."

Finally, Holden glanced up at Ackley; as he did so, he twisted the hunting cap around and pulled the peak down in front of his eyes. He was smiling now, and he began groping the air in front of Ackley while rasping, "Mother, give me your _hand_…I think I'm going blind…"

"You're nuts," said Ackley, backing off.

"Mother, why won't you give me your _hand_?"

"Grow _up_."

Throughout this odd charade, Aster had only barely contained his laughter. The look on Ackley's face was too much though; he finally burst out laughing. All the worry and nervousness he had felt over the last few hours poured away as he held his sides, laughing like a maniac. Pretty soon, Holden joined him, and both ended up writhing on the floor, their faces lit up with mirth. Ackley did not join them; in fact, he seemed to cower from the scene, and retreated back through the shower.

Once they were alone again, the laughter slowly died down, until Holden was stretched out quietly on the ground, staring at the ceiling, while Aster wiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks. He said, "I think I needed that."

"I guess so!"

"You know, I don't feel so scared anymore. I mean, I'm still worried, but it just feels like everything is going to turn out all right."

"It was that nightmare, man," said Holden. "It was messing with your head—like you were expecting something bad to happen, see?"

"Yeah, I think you're right!" Aster grabbed Holden's hand and helped him up. "It was so unreal—"

Here the door burst open and a big, muscular guy with a thick beard rushed in, stopping to slap Holden playfully on each cheek. White powder rolled off his clothing as he turned to Aster, holding out his hand. Aster took it, receiving a firm, but somehow forced, shake.

"You must be Stradlater," said Aster. "I'm Aster. I seem to have gotten myself a bit lost."

"Oh?" asked Holden's roommate, with what sounded like interest. "What happened?" Unlike Ackley, Stradlater was looking directly at Aster. It was Holden who answered, though.

"Old Spencer thinks Aster lost his memory, but I don't think so. I'm taking him back home with me so we can get him sorted out."

"Oh, yeah!" cried Stradlater, apparently forgetting all about Aster as he turned to Holden. "Wanna do me a big favor?"

"What?"

"How 'bout writing a composition for me, for English? I've got a date tonight, and I need that goddam paper in by Monday"

Holden raised an eyebrow. "_I'm_ the one flunking out of the goddam place, and _you're_ asking me to write you a goddam composition."

"Yeah, I know, but I'll be up the creek if I don't get it in. Be a buddy, okay?"

"What on?"

"_Any_thing. A room. Just be as descriptive as hell." Stradlater yawned before continuing his request. "Just don't do it _too_ good, is all. Hartzell thinks you're a hot-shot in English, and he knows you're my roommate." Then Stradlater entered the bathroom and began shaving. Holden and Aster followed him to the doorway.

"Who's your date? That Fitzgerald?"

Stradlater shook his head, as though frustrated. "It's Thaw's girl's roommate now…hey, I almost forgot. She knows _you_."

"Yeah?" asked Holden, standing up straighter. "What's her name?"

"I'm thinking…uh. Jean Gallagher."

Holden immediately slumped down, holding the doorframe. "_Jane_ Gallagher. You're damn right I know her. She practically lived right next _door_ to me. How'd she happen to mention me?" Holden was getting excited, but in a kind of nervous way, Aster thought. "Where is she? I ought to go down and say hello to her or something."

Aster interrupted, "By the way, Stradlater, you've got something on you."

Stradlater glanced down and wrinkled his nose. "It's just snow."

Holden went on. "Her mother and father were divorced. Her mother was married again to some booze hound. Skinny guy with hairy legs." He paused.

"Yeah?" Stradlater suddenly sounded morbidly interested.

"I oughta go down and at least say hello to her."

"Why the hell _don't_cha," asked an exasperated Stradlater, "instead of keep saying it?"

"Did she tell ya we used to play checkers all the time?"

"I don't know. I only just _met_ her."

"Give her my regards, will ya?"

"Okay," Stradlater said, but it sounded like he wasn't going to.

"Don't tell her I got kicked out, willya?"

"Okay." It sounded like he wouldn't. It looked like he was just about to go when Holden spoke again.

"Listen, where ya going on your date with her?"

"I don't know. She only signed out for nine-thirty." Then Stradlater hurried out the door.

Holden crossed the room and collapsed into a chair, looking exhausted. A shadow had passed over his face. Aster sat in silence a while before moving to Holden's dresser and putting the photograph back to where it had been before Ackley had moved it. Then he asked, "Is this her?"

Holden glanced over listlessly, then smiled, just a little. "No, that's Sally Hayes. I used to go around with her, back in New York." Then he fell silent again.

Aster waited uncomfortably again, then asked, "Uhhh…what's snow?"

Holden began to smile, ready to share another joke with Aster.

But Aster wasn't smiling. It was a serious question.

Author's Note: In case you haven't guessed yet, this first part is based on _Catcher in the Rye_.


	4. The Nightmare Won't End

_**Kingdom Hearts: Literary Hearts**_

3: The Nightmare Won't End

It was hours before Aster came in from the snow and settled onto Holden's bed. Holden had come back inside earlier to work on the paper.

He was wearing Holden's hound's-tooth jacket. He had been playing around like a little kid who was seeing snow for the first time.

Because, of course, he never _had_ seen snow before.

It _never_ got that cold, where he was from.

Holden was seated at his desk, which was a little too short for his frame. He was writing, probably working on Stradlater's composition, but an old baseball glove was on the desk next to the paper. It was a left-handed fielder's mitt, the leather worn and tattooed with writing in green ink. Part of Aster was frightened to go back to sleep; last time he had done so, we woke up seemingly in the wrong dimension, but he was far too tired now to fight it. And, thankfully, he wasn't troubled by any dreams, nor did Stradlater's footsteps in the hallway wake him up. It took Aster a few seconds to realize the conversation he was listening to wasn't a dream.

"This is about a goddam _base_ball glove."

"So what?"

"I told ya it had to be about a goddam _room_. No wonder you're flunking out of here. You don't do _one thing_ the way you're supposed to."

"All right, give it back to me then." And Aster raised his head in time to watch Holden snatch the composition away from Stradlater, rip it up, and drop the shreds into a waste basket.

"What did ya do _that_ for?" bellowed Stradlater.

Holden didn't answer; he just settled down next to Aster on the bed, lighting a cigarette. Aster absolutely hated the smell of tobacco, and he got up and moved closer to the window. Holden seemed too upset to notice. After a moment, he spoke to Stradlater again.

"You're back pretty goddam late if she only signed out for nine-thirty. Did you make her be late signing in?"

"Coupla minutes." Stradlater was calmly cutting his toenails. "Who the hell signs out for nine-thirty on a Saturday night?"

Holden scowled. "Where'd ya go with her?"

Putting away the nail clippers, Stradlater stood over Holden and started punching his arm playfully. "Nowhere. We just sat in the goddam car."

"What did you do?" asked Holden, rising, "What did you do to her in the car?"

"What a thing to say. And anyway, that's a professional secret buddy."

Holden paused, his eyes seeming to focus outside the bedroom. Aster, finally realizing the source of his new friend's bad humor, thought the conversation was over. Then Holden tried to punch Stradlater in the face. With an agility that seemed almost out of place, Stradlater immediately knocked Holden to the ground and pinned him down. Stradlater's face was red with fury and he started shouting, "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Get your lousy _knees_ off my _chest_."

"Cut it out!" Aster shouted, rushing at Stradlater and then more or less bouncing off of him.

Holden was starting to pant out, "You don't care anything about a girl, you moron, you think you can just…"

Now Stradlater was raising his fist, Aster _had_ to act now, and he rushed at Stradlater, his hand raised in a fist, it would be his first real fight, and against a football player for that matter, and Aster swiped—pathetically—at Holden's assailant.

Who illogically flew across the room, landing on his own bed, grasping his arm.

The room was quiet for a second. Then Stradlater whispered, "He goddam asked for it," then slipped quietly out the door.

Holden picked up the red cap, pulled it back on his head, and slowly began to adjust it. All the time he was staring openly at Aster. The way he stared made Aster very nervous. He looked away, then began fidgeting, tightening his grip on—

Aster swallowed and then glanced down quickly. And there it was, gleaming in his hand.

The sword.

The key shaped sword.

real

And an eerily familiar and powerful voice seemed to echo around the room, a voice which Holden did not hear.

"Keyblade…" it said. "Keyblade…"

Aster wheeled around and threw the sword to the ground. It vanished in a flash of light, reappearing immediately in Aster's hand. He dropped it again in panic, and it returned. In a rising state of fury, he hurled the sword against the wall. It clattered to the floor, then boomeranged once again.

"I can't stay here," said Holden.

"Wait, please—" started Aster, but Holden seemed to talking to himself. A fresh resolve sparkled in his eyes.

"It's too sad, too lonesome here…let's go."

"Go? Where?"

"New York."

Aster was confused, but also excited. He wouldn't have to wait after all; he was going to start finding answers tonight! Holden was already packing things from his closet. But he was also crying. Aster didn't know whether to help Holden with his things or to let him be for a few minutes. He realized that he would have to pack the keyblade somewhere—he had forgotten it was still in his hand—when it vanished in another flash of light. Aster rolled his eyes at the rising stupidity of this situation.

Holden had finished packing, and the two boys stood together at the door. Aster sensed this was somehow a major moment for Holden, who slowly, expectantly, turned the knob of his bedroom door.

The pair strode down the corridor until they reached the stairwell. Holden turned back with a thoughtful look on his face, which was still damp with tears.

Aster jumped when Holden shouted at the top of his voice, "_Sleep tight, ya morons!_"

Then Holden turned, and Aster followed.

And Holden Caulfield left Pencey behind.

They walked all the way to the train station, each carrying one of Holden's suitcases. Aster was pretty miserable in the cold, and was very grateful as they came up to the entrance.

Holden stopped abruptly and shouted wonderingly, "What the hell?"

Aster glanced up. The sidewalk outside the doorway seemed to be shifting somehow, as the though the shadows were…

As though the shadows were alive.

Aster dropped the suitcase as the horror sank in. First the keyblade and now the shadows. His entire nightmare seemed to be coming true.

But just as he thought, "keyblade," that same mysterious weapon flashed back into his hand. He stood there a moment looking back and forth between the keyblade and the shadows. He was shaken from this reverie when he realized that the shadows were closing in on Holden.

With a shout, Aster and the keyblade leaped upon his enemies.

Holden backed away quickly as the combination of boy and sword slashed through the first three monsters. The remaining shadows sank into the ground, but then rounded on Aster; they seemed to have lost interest in Holden.

Aster was ready for them. As they reappeared above the ground, he cut through each one in quick succession. When the fight was done, Holden looked at Aster as though seeing him for the first time.

"That was—the most goddam amazing thing I've ever seen! Really!"

Aster was not nearly as excited. "But what were those things! And why did they attack us! And where did this keyblade come from!"

"Keyblade?"

"This sword!"

"I know what ya mean, but where did you get that name?"

Aster opened his mouth to shout another answer, but realized he didn't know when that name had popped into his mind. It seemed…familiar, as though it had always been floating around in the back of his head. All he could come up with was a feeble, "I don't know."


	5. Beneath the Skyscrapers

**Author's Note: **Thanks for your comment, Paopu, and again for yours, xXAxisXx. I'm reaaly glad you're liking the story, considering how out of the box it is. It's been a while since I added a chapter, but that's what college homework does too your schedule. I'll try to update at least once a week.

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 4: Beneath the Skyscrapers

One train ride and one cab ride later, Aster and Holden were resting in a room at the Edmont hotel, but neither was going to be falling asleep anytime soon. Aster had slept on both train and taxi, and did not feel tired at all. Holden on the other hand looked very tired, but had been in a strange mood all night. He had spent twenty minutes inside a phone booth before hailing their taxi at the station.

Aster had spent those twenty minutes trying to absorb his surroundings. Everything was just so…_big_. The buildings—apartments, businesses, towers—were simply massive—certainly larger than they needed to be, right? Aster had always known that his town was far from the largest settlement in the world, but stories of places like this were unknown to him. Had his father been keeping a place like this a secret? This place, with buildings taller than any tree or mountain, with its bright but cold lights glittering like fool's gold. These were the thoughts and images that flooded Aster's mind as he slept in the cab. They did not, however, intrude upon his needed rest as dreams.

Staring out the hotel's window, Holden suddenly said, "Let's go down to the lobby. I want to make a call."

"Another one? Who did you call after the train?"

"Nobody."

"Huh? You were in there for—"

"I didn't call anybody, okay?" Holden shouted.

Aster flinched—this was the first time Holden had been angry with him, and he was really angry.

"I just couldn't…couldn't decide who to call. I was going to call my sister Phoebe but if Mom answered she would know it was me even if I kept quiet—"

"But—now you've decided?"

Holden didn't answer right away. "I think I'll call Jane."

"Gallagher?"

"Yeah."

"I'm coming too," said Aster. "I don't want to be alone." He felt it would be too easy to be lost in this sprawling city.

As they headed to the lobby, Holden described Phoebe, and Aster got the feeling that Phoebe might be the only thing that mattered to Holden.

"I mean she's had all A's ever since she started school…She's only ten…I mean if you tell old Phoebe something, she knows exactly what the hell you're talking about…The only trouble is, she's a little too affectionate sometimes…but she still kills everybody—everybody with any sense, anyway."

In the lobby, Holden slumped into one of a set of chairs the color of vomit. Aster stopped in confusion, and glanced towards the phone.

"Uh, weren't you going to call Jane? The phone is up there."

"You know, I don't actually feel like calling her. I just don't feel like it. Not really. Maybe I should phone up Sally Hayes instead." But Holden just stared at the phone with longing.

Aster sat down. "I think you just want to talk to anyone really bad." He waited. "Well? What do you want to talk about?"

Holden sighed, "I just get to feel…so goddam lonely all the time. The world is just so full of phonies—do you know what I mean?"

Aster considered the question. He didn't know exactly what Holden meant by "phony." But in the end, he had to admit, "Yes. I do know what you mean."

Holden, encouraged, said, "Now, my brother, D.B., he's in Hollywood right now."

"Hollywood?"

"Yeah, making movies. Well, writing them anyway. He does scripts and stuff. But he didn't always—listen—he used to be a regular writer. He even published some short stories, and some of them were really terrific, really. But what's he doing now? Just being a prostitute, making stories for those hot shots. He's been saving up for a Jaguar, like he needs one."

"A jaguar?"

"The car."

"Oh. Not a cat."

"Uh, no. But anyway, that's what I mean. My own brother. All that Hollywood crap is just so fake, I can't stand it. Really, I can't." And Holden became silent.

For a moment, Aster felt almost obliged to talk about his family, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything about that.

Instead, he asked, "How are your parents going to react to your getting expelled?"

Holden smiled. "Not well. Mom will be disappointed, and Dad will be furious. He shouldn't be too surprised, though. It's not like it's the first time I've flunked out."

"You've been kicked out before?"

"Oh yeah. More than once."

"Wow. I'm surprised. I mean, after the first time, I would have been more careful."

"Careful? Oh sure, I was careful. Really careful. But, you know, a guy like me, I just can't force myself to like something. I can't just _interest_ myself, if you know what I mean."

"Well maybe, but, you have to try, right?"

"Sure I tried. I always try. But I can't. And then I stop trying. And pretty soon after, I try again, at another school."

Aster looked at Holden, who was looking sullenly between his legs. With sudden confidence, Aster said, "Have you told your parents that you feel this way?"

Holden sighed. "They'd probably give the same old bull crap about life being a game and all.

"This definitely is not a game! Now come on. We're going to your house right now, and you're going to tell your dad everything you just told me."

"It's late."

"We aren't tired if we're having a conversation like this."

Holden paused. "Too late to get a cab."  
"Then we'll walk."

And they did. But Aster regretted this suggestion, because immediately after they picked up Holden's bags and left the hotel lobby, the Shadows again rose from the darkness to greet them. There was a difference in this encounter, however, one unnoticed by both boys. This time, Aster held out both hands and made the keyblade come to him. And then, he slew them. The entire group of Shadows died—if they had lived to begin with—and so did every group that followed them. There were many groups between the Edmont and Holden's home. The Shadows always attacked in a small group, never alone, and they always surrounded Aster in their flat forms before surfacing and attacking. They would often split into two groups, trying for both Aster and Holden at once, but Holden quickly learned to step around them in time to avoid the Shadows' claws. And Aster would always arrive to destroy them. Yet no matter how many Shadows were cut down by the keyblade, another group would always be waiting around the corner or down the street. It was like that the entire way. The dead Shadows would dissolve back into shadow, and it seemed as though he fought the night itself.

Needless to say, after the pair reached the apartment complex where Holden's family lived, they had been fighting and running all night without rest, and were therefore exhausted. The exhaustion vanished rather quickly when Holden heard Phoebe scream.

"Phoebe!?"

Aster looked up the wall of the apartment complex. The brick seemed grey in the lightless night. The building towered at least fifteen stories into the night sky, its shadow blotting out the stars. Each floor had a stone ledge surrounding it, flat and barely wide enough for a foothold. And _something_ was making excellent use of that foothold. A massive, hulking figure with a hunched out back was a short way up, clutching a little girl in one snakelike arm. The other arm was occupied in slowly stretching up until a clawed fist latched onto the next ledge, then slowly contracting until the lumpy, callous body followed. Stumpy feet would somehow manage to gain a hold, and the thing raised its arm again, continuing its journey to the roof.

Phoebe somehow managed to crane her head to see the street below. "Holden! Help me!"

"Phoebe!" Holden shouted again. He turned to Aster. Aster had taken to keeping the keyblade out during their walk, rather than dismissing it after each battle. To Holden, Aster looked ready for anything, and he prayed that would prove true. "Help her."

Aster was nervous, wanting to help his new friend, but doubtful he could do anything. "How can I catch up to them?"

Holden glanced around wildly before his eyes focused on the network of steel attached to the building. They had come upon the apartments from the back, and the fire escape was only about ten yards away from the retreating beast.

"There!" he cried, and ran towards it at top speed. Aster hesitated, but the keyblade practically lunged from his grip, carrying him forward.

"All right," whispered Aster, "let's go."


	6. The Deep End

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 5: The Deep End

Holden must have flown up the stairs on the fire escape, because it seemed to take Aster hours to catch up to him. His tall frame was stretched out impossibly far, trying to reach his sister. The monster was too far away, out of even Holden's long reach. It had already grabbed the next ledge, heading up with its prisoner in tow.

"Please Holden!" screamed Phoebe. "I can't get loose!" The monster's arm was coiled about her thin body, so that Phoebe couldn't force open its grip.

Aster pulled on Holden's shoulder, dragging him backwards to the next stairwell.

"We have to try from higher up!" Holden took a moment to understand Aster's words, then ran ahead of him to the next platform.

"Keep going!" yelled Aster. "We need to get above it!" It was difficult to get a sense of scale from their position, but Aster thought the monster was about half way up the building, so he and Holden tore up the fire escape until they were a few stories above the monster. For the first time it saw them, pausing to glare with a jagged mouth and beady yellow eyes that gazed from stony brows.

They were the same as the eyes of the Shadows that had haunted Aster in the streets.

The monster resumed climbing.

Aster climbed the steel railing that surrounded the fire escape and squeezed out onto the lip of stone, telling Holden, "Stay here so you can grab her from me."

"How are you going to get her away from that thing?"

"…Don't know."

And Aster, with his back against the building's exterior, edged across the flat surface until he was directly above the monster. Surprisingly, the keyblade felt lighter than ever and didn't throw off Aster's balance. He scooted back to give the creature room to grab onto his level; he couldn't knock it off yet or Phoebe would fall with it. The monster eased up next to Aster, spared him a single tentative glance…then reached up to next ledge!

Aster was a expecting a fight, not to be ignored! He immediately grabbed for Phoebe, trying to pull apart the grey, coiled arm. But the monster just tightened its grip and tried to pull away from Aster. Glancing once at the crying little girl, Aster decided at last to attack the monster, swinging the keyblade—carefully—at the beast's shoulder. The blade didn't leave any visible injury, but drew smoky tendrils of darkness away from the line of impact.

The monster was pulled back to Aster's level by the blow. A few shards of cement dislodged and sprinkled to the ground below. Finally, the thing's grip loosened, and Phoebe pushed herself out, tears dropping many stories before reaching the pavement. She grasped Aster's arms, and he dismissed the keyblade to support her. As he crept back to Holden, he could still see the monster. It had grabbed the rim above, and Aster assumed it would continue on its way to the roof. Instead it eased itself up, and settled back down.

About two feet closer than before.

"Hurry," whispered Phoebe. Aster tried, but rushing wasn't exactly safe in their position. He could only get about half-way back before the monster made two more feet of headway.

Phoebe buried her head against Aster's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I haven't saved you yet," replied Aster.

The clumping of the monster's feet against the cement spoke of its continuing progress.

After what felt like a longer walk than it had taken to _get_ to the apartments, Aster finally managed to reach the fire escape, shoving Phoebe unceremoniously through the grating and into her brother's waiting arms. "_Holden,_" she said right away. Simultaneously, the monster clumped still closer, and Aster shoved himself through the bars.

He had almost made it all the way through when the monster's balled fist struck him in the back, pushing him all the way in, along with twisted lengths of metal and an entire map of bruises he wouldn't discover until later.

Holden and Phoebe looked at Aster and fell back; in their teary moment of reunion, they had nearly forgotten Aster and their assailant. The slate-skinned beast was right outside the fire escape, now clawing its way through. It made a grab for Aster, but he recovered from his fall quickly enough to call up the keyblade and bat the claws away.

"Let's get out of…" Holden began, before Aster stepped into the opening the monster had rent to face it. The monster was hanging on with one hand, and attacking with the other. It raised the hand above its head, splayed as though Aster were a fly about to be swatted. At the last moment, Aster jumped backwards, and the massive paw became impaled on the metal spokes it had exposed. Strangely, no blood or gore was visible; the spines simply vanished into one side and reappeared on the other. Aster then slammed the keyblade down onto the monster's hand, finally coaxing a reaction from the silent nemesis.

It opened its mouth, revealing what had seemed teeth to be the ragged edge of its lips. In fact, it had no teeth to speak of; nor tongue, nor throat. The only thing inside the strange creature's throat was an empty void of pure shadow.

The monster reeled back and let out a growl of pain, a throaty, garbled rush like cobbles rolling down a steep hillside.

Aster, seeing what might be his only opportunity, jumped forward and lashed the monster from shoulder to waist, drawing a trail of darkness and pebbles along the keyblade's path.

The monster took one last look at Aster…and released the upper sill. It began to fall. In that moment, Aster saw for the first time the symbol on the monster's chest, a black stylized heart, with red slashes crossing it diagonally, and the bottom ending in a fleur-de-lis rather than a point.

It was just slipping off the edge when a massive glowing heart erupted from this symbol and slowly floated up into the night sky.

The monster's body, surrounded by a corona of shadows, dissipated into nothing.

"What were you doing outside in your pajamas?" demanded Holden. "And at this time of night too!" But he wasn't angry. That was plain in his face.

"I didn't mean to! Really! But I was looking out the window for you, and then this huge hand comes and grabs me! It started to climb down with me, but then you two came and it went up instead."

Holden was chilled. If the monster had gone up in the first place, it would have been out of sight when they got here, and wouldn't even have realized she had been kidnapped until they had gotten inside.

"Wait," said Aster, "how did you know we were coming?"

"The voice in my dream said that my brother would be coming home tonight with a hero," Phoebe said, a hint of pride in her voice.

Voices and dreams. Chills ran through the back of Aster's mind. "Can we…go inside? It's too cold out here."

"I guess," said Holden, "but, boy, I know Mom and Dad will be awake from all the noise."

"Daddy and Mother are at a party in Norfolk, Connecticut. They won't be home till late." _That_ sure cheered Holden up.

"You still have to talk to them," said Aster, sternly.

"I know that. Certainly I know."

Phoebe proudly led them back indoors, as though leading a parade. Inside the Caulfield's apartment, Holden made hot chocolate for Phoebe in a microwave. He offered some to Aster, but Aster was more concerned about something else.

"Tell me about this dream, Phoebe."

She sipped the drink, then said, "I was dreaming, and I was on this big platform like a window in a church and those little black bug things were there—"

"You mean the Shadows?"

"Yeah! That's what they called them on the news."

Aster and Holden shared a meaningful look. They hadn't realized anyone else had seen them fighting the creatures.

Phoebe continued. "But then this great, big voice told them to go away, and they all shrank down and disappeared. Then it told me my brother was coming, and bringing a hero with him."

"But I'm not a hero."

"Yes you are," said Holden immediately. "I didn't thank you yet, Aster, but you just saved Phoebe's life. I…" and Holden trailed off looking at his feet, not knowing how to continue.

"And anyway," continued Phoebe, "it's definitely you, because the voice said that you would be the key."

"The key?" Aster summoned the keyblade again. "I guess that is pretty specific," he admitted.

Phoebe suddenly hopped down. "But listen. _Please_. You have to take Holden with you."

"With me? I don't even know where I'm going!"

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. "It said you were going on a great journey."

"Not that I'm aware of."

"And I'm not going anywhere, Phoebe! I just got home."

Phoebe turned to Holden, a strange look in her eye. "But _why_? Mother said you'd be home Wednesday. Why are you early?"

And from the look on Holden's face, Aster realized that if Holden didn't care about being expelled, and didn't care if his parents knew, he definitely cared that Phoebe had just figured it out.


	7. A Path Between

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 6: A Path Between

"Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said I—"

"You did. You _did_." And then Phoebe punched Holden in the leg—again. Aster didn't laugh; not that it wasn't funny, but he could tell it actually hurt Holden. "Daddy'll _kill_ you." And as if to add the period at the end of the sentence, she plopped herself facedown on her bed and covered her head with the pillow.

Phoebe's room was surprisingly well-kept, for a fourth-grader. Her clothes from the previous day were folded on top of the desk chair. The desk itself was covered in journals and homework and other papers covered in writing; they were scattered, but still organized. On the wall perpendicular to it was a small bookshelf, all neat angles, with books arranged by size. Aster stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do with himself as he watched Holden get chewed out by his younger sister.

"Now listen, Phoeb. Nobody's gonna—take that goddam thing off your head—nobody's gonna kill me. I'm going away. I know this guy whose grandpa has a ranch in Colorado."

Phoebe uncovered her head and stared at him desperately. "No, Holden, _no_! You've got to go with _him_. And stop _swearing_." Aster was back in the conversation, to his embarrassment.

"I'm not going anywhere but home!"

"I know. The voice said you would be trying to." She got up from the bed and leaned down in front of her bookshelf, her finger scanning each binding. Holden was quiet, not wanting his sister's wrath to resurface. Aster did not like the way Phoebe had said _trying_.

Finally coming to a decision, Phoebe pulled a book from the bottom shelf, brought it to Aster and handed it over, simply saying, "Here."

Aster read the cover (not a title or author he recognized). "What's this for?" he asked.

"Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"Well, I don't know, I thought you would…you're supposed to be the key!"

Aster gave her a skeptical glance, but summoned the keyblade anyway. He didn't expect anything to happen, and was therefore more surprised when the book removed itself from his grip and hovered in the air within a halo of light that forced Aster to blink. The keyblade then pulled Aster's hand forwards, so that he was pointing it directly at the floating book. The book slowly opened, pouring out a massive saucer of light that flooded Phoebe's bedroom.

"What is that?" asked Holden.

"How did you do that?" asked Aster.

"_You_ did it," said Phoebe. "You are the _key_."

"I'm supposed to go in that thing—hang on! Do you mean that's going to take me home?"

"I guess." But Phoebe sounded unsure. She added, "The voice said it would be the start of your great journey."

"Journey? I don't want a journey! I just want to be home, to be back with my—" Here he was interrupted by his own tears.

Phoebe stepped over to Aster and hugged him. Holden had to smile, seeing his little sister comforting a sixteen-year old like she was his mother.

Wiping his face, Aster finally asked, "So I have to go through there to get home?"

Phoebe smiled encouragingly. "I think so." Then she rounded on Holden again. "And you've got to go too. If you don't, Daddy will _kill_ you!"

"Phoebe!" Holden said angrily. "I can't just leave. You know that."

"Well what are you going to do if you do stay?"

"Well…well, I guess I'll…"

"Do what?" she demanded. "Let Daddy get angry at ya again? Go to another school and flunk out _again_!"

"Listen, Phoebe," Holden said in defense. "That school…Pencey was one of the worst schools I ever went to. It was full of phonies!"

"But you _al_ways say that, Holden! You always do! But if you go with Aster, and help him, it will help you too! The voice said so!"

After Phoebe said this, Aster watched a change in Holden's face. It was easy enough to guess the taller boy's line of thought: Whatever lies beyond that circle of radiance, he wouldn't have to face his parents, and he wouldn't end up in another pathetic school surrounded by the phonies he detested. He really didn't want to go, but in the end…

"All right. I'll do it. I'll go with Aster."

Phoebe leaped into the air with a grateful grin on her face. She ran to hug her brother, prompting him to smile as well.

"So," interrupted Aster, "how does this work? We just walk through there?"

"It looks like it," said Holden, breaking the hug. He sort of gave her a kiss, and then stood facing Aster. "I don't know what I've gotten into, promising to help you and all."

"Hey," replied Aster. "At least you had a choice."

"That's right; I had forgotten how deep in this _you_ are. Say, ya don't remember anything like this in your dream, do you? Because maybe you came through something like this to get here, if you know what I mean."

"Maybe." But Aster wasn't sure. He turned to face the portal, Holden stepping to his side. "But at the very least, we're sure to get some answers." Aster and Holden stepped forward.

"Bye Holden!" called Phoebe. "Thanks for saving me, Aster! I hope you can help him too!"

"What's that mean?" asked Holden, but Phoebe could not hear him. She was alone in her bedroom, with a book on the floor and the biggest secret of her life still hanging in the air.

The two boys were flying along rapidly. Holden might have said the light was holding him tightly; Aster would have said he was being crushed. Until, at last—

"Well, Aster? Is this your home?"

For a second, Aster readily believed that it could be; the houses were small, all painted white. They weren't crowded together, like the apartment buildings and towers and skyscrapers of Holden's home. They seemed to be made of wood, like the walls of his lost hometown, but they shined unnaturally and had a sort of clawed metal appendage reaching into the sky from a point on each house. The streets were cobbled with stones, not simple dirt tracts. The setting seemed simple enough, but it just wasn't right somehow.

Aster hung his head. "This isn't it."

Holden pondered for a while. "This place…it has an old-fashioned feel, but they also have television."

"What's that?"

"Television. Like those antennae on the roofs. It grabs pictures out of the air and shows them on a little box in your house. It shows the news and stuff."

"Hmm. Sounds more efficient then postage."

"Yeah, just a little," Holden said ironically. "Now listen—we must be in some small town, 'cause they have all the same technology—" Holden had interrupted himself.

"What's wrong?" asked Aster, but then he heard it too—a sound like a muffled drum, slowly moving towards them from up the street.

Even though it must have been past midnight when they left Holden's house, the sun was still up here, preparing to fade. Whatever was coming towards them was obscured by the shadow cast by one line of houses. They began to back away, watching the street and catching glimpses of a shining surface whenever their pursuer passed between the houses, where the sun cast an orange glow. Finally, it got close enough to Aster and Holden for them to get a clear view.

And as the creature sat down before them, Holden had to admit, "Well now, maybe the technology isn't quite the same."

The animal—assuming it was actually alive, which was a stretch—was made of metal: copper, steel and brass. Eight back-jointed legs suspended a cylindrical torso off the ground, the torso featuring many small openings and tubes. The legs were capped off with rubber on the soles; these thudding against the cobblestones were the source of the drumbeats. The head was vaguely reminiscent of a dog, as it had a muzzle of sorts which ended in a pair of nostrils. The bottoms of the feet were more paw-like than spider like, making the rubber caps suggest the pads of a dog—or wolf. Rather than a mouth, however, a hollow cylinder protruded from the tip of the false snout.

"Holden," whispered Aster, "what is that?"

"I have no idea. Do ya think it's like the monsters that have been after us?"

"Well, it isn't trying to kill us…"

Just as Aster said this, the dog stood up and closed the distance between them, pressing against them closely with its hollow tube snout. As it tilted its head up to Aster, he could see that the nostrils were lined with very thin wires that almost looked like bendable glass. It finished with Aster and moved on to Holden, smelling carefully, but non-threateningly. Then it sat down again, emitting a disturbing metallic whine.

"What the hell? Is that thing—real?"

"I guess it's no less real than the Shadows from my dream."

As though summoned by his name, Shadows drifted out of the dark lines between the cobblestones, leading to the familiar sensation of being surrounded.

"What, are they spying on us now?"

"Hey!" cried Aster in excitement. "Maybe the dog will help us!" They looked at the dog expectantly. It tensed up, as if hearing its name called, turned its back to the boys and ran away.

"Crap," said Aster


	8. The Heartless

_**Literary Hearts**_

**Author's Note:** I realized I loaded this without proofreading earlier today. I don't think many people saw it, but here it is again. I mostly just fixed grammar mistakes, although there are a few new lines in there...sorry...

Chapter 7: The Heartless

"Guess you're on your own again."

"There's a big surprise. How many are there this time?"

"Looks like about…fifteen."

"Marvelous." And Aster attacked.

With such a large crowd of Shadows, Aster and Holden had to move constantly. Even then, they managed to receive quite a few scratch marks before Aster successfully killed them all.

"This is getting old. You'd think—are you all right?"

Holden was clutching his ankle, blood discoloring his sock. "Yeah. I guess I am."

Aster frowned, unconvinced by the answer.

"Really! I can walk, it just hurts a little, that's all."

"Well, if you're sure…" Aster bent down and lifted Holden by the shoulder. While Holden was standing, a man came running up the street to them, the metal hound spidering along at his side.

"Are you kids all right?" He had a young but firm voice. Despite his youth, his face was etched with lines, as well as sooty spots that could also have been burns. He even smelled like fuel (Holden recognized the stench as kerosene). He wore what appeared to be a full-body trench coat, a very dark blue. Underneath one sleeve was a hose with a brass nozzle; the hose ran back to a tank that hung like a backpack off his shoulders. The man also wore a hat that shined like the round, black back of a beetle. A small yellow plaque affixed to the front read "451." His sleeves, blackened with soot, had the same number stitched on in dark letters.

"Yes, we're fine, _really_," insisted Holden.

"We were attacked by these little Shadow things," began Aster.

"Yes, I know," said the man in the beetle-colored hat. "The mechanical hound fetched me—its Heartless detection faculty had triggered."

"Heartless?" asked both of the boys at the same time. "Those things that have been attacking us? You know what they are?"

"Of course! Haven't you two been paying attention to the announcements in school?"

"No," said Holden truthfully.

The man sighed. "Look, the Heartless are dangerous. You shouldn't be outside with the sun just setting. That's when they're out the most."

"Well, don't worry," said Aster, "Those little guys are no match for me!"

"Oh," replied the man. "It was just the little ones? You're both lucky."

"Little ones?"

And three portals opened in a circle around them. Unlike the circle of light in Phoebe's bedroom, these were black corridors that showed only dark shadows. And out of each fell…a large chimney.

Although they appeared to be plain stacks of stones cemented together, a pair of yellow eyes peered out from between those stones. They wobbled rather amusingly on their rounded bases. The tops of the creatures' heads were opened, completing the appearance of a chimney. They would have blended in perfectly on a rooftop if the pattern of cobbled stones weren't interrupted by a black and red insignia resembling a slashed heart.

It was the same symbol worn by the Heartless that had kidnapped Phoebe.

"Smokestacks!" shouted the man, whipping the brass nozzle into his hand. Aster returned to his fighting stance, while Holden limped between the two, grateful that he could stay in one safe place rather than dance around the Heartless.

"Are these as easy to kill as Shadows?" asked Aster.

"Yes," said the man, activating the nozzle with a button and unleashing a huge spray of flames at the nearest Smokestack. After a moment, the cobbled stones of its body disintegrated and vanished and a small glowing heart ascended into the night.

"Then again," said Holden, "I guess _every_thing's pretty easy to kill with a goddam _flamethrower_."

Aster jumped at a Smokestack on his side and hit it with the keyblade, which only grazed through its stony hide without killing it. The Heartless countered by lunging forward, knocking Aster backwards into Holden.

"I'd say they're definitely stronger," admitted Aster.

"You've got to be fast to fight these," said the man with the flamethrower as he aimed his hose at the third Heartless, which jumped aside in time to avoid being completely scorched. Aster jumped forward again and smacked this one, crumbling the stones and releasing another heart. He turned back to the one that had hit him, which was bending over, almost as though it were bowing to Aster.

"Get out of the way!" shouted the flamethrower guy. Aster jumped to the side just as a blast of noxious smoke poured from the Smokestack's open head. Once it started, though, it seemed unable to stop, and stood helplessly bent as Aster hit it three times in quick succession. The last blow sent it sputtering through the air, a line of black smog marking its path as it crashed into the side of a house and vanished, with another heart following close on the heels of the other two.

"All right, now you kids want to explain what you're doing out here?"

"Well, we just got into town, but the heartless have been attacking us so much lately, it was just natural to stop to fight them."

"Huh? From out in the country, huh? I've heard stories about hermits living out there beyond the roadways. Ever see any?"

"Uh, no," said Holden. "Not exactly."

"Hang on," said Aster. "That's the third type of Heartless we've seen. What exactly are they? And what does the symbol on their chest mean?"

The man scratched his head and looked away. "I'm not sure, really. We're supposed to help fight them since they kill people once in a while. That's why we programmed the Hounds to detect them and warn us whenever they show up near people. Unfortunately, we can't get them to fight the Heartless since the Heartless don't have DNA. The Hounds only go after living things."

"The Heartless aren't alive?"

The man started laughing—not a very convincing laugh—then stopped when he noticed the boys watched him with blank expressions. "If you really want to know more about them, you'll have to ask my captain. He knows a lot; he did a lot of reading back before books were banned, and he still does a lot of research with reference materials."

"What do you mean, before books were _banned_?" asked Aster.

Real shock crossed the man's face. "You really _are_ from the backwoods, aren't you? Books have been banned for decades. They contain dangerous ideas and make people unhappy."

"I see…" said Aster.

"Now hold on," said Holden, "you said you had a captain. So you're like a cop or something?"

"This is unbelievable!" shouted the man. "Kids half your age know more than you. Don't you recognize my suit? I'm a fireman."

"Don't firefighters usually have hoses with water in them? Instead of fire, I mean."

"Well it would be rather difficult to burn books with water."

"Burn them!"

"Of course. It's the duty of the firemen to burn books and the people who house them. It's been that way ever since Benjamin Franklin founded us."

"Benja—" began Aster, but was silenced when Holden stepped slightly on his foot and interrupted.

"We would really appreciate it if you introduced us to this captain guy. Really we would. Since the Heartless keep trying to kill us, we'd better learn as much about them as we goddam can."

The man considered for a moment and then said, "All right. You kids are acting real funny though; you'd better not be trying to embarrass me in front of my captain? If you're sure…I guess Beatty wouldn't mind a late visit. He is kind of a showoff about the stuff he's been researching lately. I'm Montag, by the way. Guy Montag."

"I'm Holden, and this is Aster."

"Just let me send the Hound back to the station so it can recharge." He stepped up to the machine, which had not shown any reaction to anything that had happened since Montag had arrived. Now, as he bent over to reach for a control panel on the Hound's back, it reared up and glared at him from its green-blue ruby eyes. The metallic whine rose to a crescendo, becoming a menacing growl. A tiny needle slid out of the hollow nose, then slipped back in, then out and in again. The dog took off in the direction it had come from, leaving Montag shaken with fear, paralyzed in that position.

"I don't think your dog likes you," said Holden.

"What was that needle thing?" asked Aster uneasily.

Montag was still shaking as he said, "A syringe. A syringe filled with a lethal dose of procaine. We punch in the genetic patterns of ban offenders that escape the firemen and the Hound hunts them down and—and puts them down."

Holden fell silent, a clouded look on his face; Aster asked, "Why did it do that to you?"

"It shouldn't have. It shouldn't unless someone entered a section of my DNA into its data banks. But only firemen have access to that."

"Why would they have done that?"

"I—I don't know," said Montag quickly.

**Author's Note:** This next section of the story takes place in my favorite novel ever, _Fahrenheit 451_, by Ray Bradbury. I highly recommend it, and I don't want to spoil the ending, so go read it now!


	9. A Graveyard for Books

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 9: A Graveyard for Books

Captain Beatty lived in an apartment. Unlike the building Holden lived in, this apartment wasn't a set of blocks crammed together into a slab of cement. It was more spacious, with a landing leading up to each doorstep. It sprawled over the ground rather than rising into the sky, giving the feeling that each tenant was isolated in their own building; the structure almost precluded any chance of meeting anyone else on the way in or out your front door.

Montag pressed a button on the wall outside the door. It looked like a doorbell, but after it had been pressed, a soft, feminine voice called from inside the house, "Captain Beatty, Captain Beatty, someone here, someone here…" The electronic recording echoed inside the house for half a minute before fading away.

The door opened, and there stood Captain Beatty. He wasn't in uniform like Montag, but wore a black silk robe. His hair was graying, but was tinged with black—soot, not dye.

"Why Montag, it's rather late for a visit. Who might this be?" He did an excellent job of disguising the suspicion in his voice.

"Sorry about the hour," said Montag, "but these boys are from out in the country, and they have some questions about the Heartless."

"Country boys, eh? That's a shame; the schools would have told them everything they needed to know. Oh well, come inside."

The apartment was nicely furnished, but the furniture was simple, though comfortable. There were no decorations, and without bookshelves, the apartment seemed very bare. Aster, Holden and Montag sat on a soft couch while Beatty took a plain recliner. From there, Holden saw the far wall for the first time, and he stood again and examined it. Aster could tell it was different from the other walls, a different shade of white, with a black metal border where it met the ceiling, floor and other walls. He didn't see the significance Holden attached to it, however.

"This—this whole wall is a goddam T.V!"

Beatty narrowed his eyes at Holden. "My, they are from the country—deep in the country, I would say! Well boys, the honest truth is that you probably have nothing to worry about from the Heartless. Most of the time, if they show up at all, they leave people alone."

"Really?" asked Holden, "because that's sort of the exact opposite of how they've been treating us, if you know what I mean."

"That's true," provided Montag. "They're one of _those_."

"Aaah." Beatty scrutinized them, the clean whiteness of his teeth and shining gums contrasting his unshaven chin and sooty hair. "Consider yourselves honored, boys. The Heartless only go for good people."

"Good people?" asked Aster. "How can they tell?"

"Why, they sense the light in those people's hearts. Bad people have hearts that are filled with darkness, and the Heartless see those as buddies—kindred spirits, so to speak. And so they don't react to those. But a heart of light, now that tastes just delicious to them. So, pow! They suck up that heart."

"The Heartless eat hearts?" asked Holden shakily, thinking about Phoebe.

"More or less, yes. I don't know what actually happens to the hearts they steal, but the person who lost it turns into a Heartless himself."

"What!" Aster's mind suddenly flashed back to the image of himself he had seen in the dream, a Heartless with his own body. Was it some kind of warning?

"That's why the firemen have taken on the responsibility of fighting them," offered Montag. "They don't go after people often, but when they do find a group of people they like, they start to multiply."

"I'm surprised they aren't more dangerous than you're making them out to be," said Holden. "I mean, most people are good, right? So shouldn't they be attacking everyone?"

"Good? Correction: Most people are happy—that's the most important part of a fireman's job. But folks nowadays don't really do much of anything, good or bad. They just are." Beatty paused, as if remembering details for a speech. "It wasn't always that way, but with all the mass media and the minorities complaining…it makes it easier for people not to have to think."

"So you took the ability to think away? By burning their books?" asked Holden.

Beatty looked sharply at Holden, and Montag looked expectantly at Beatty, as though he wanted to know the same question.

"Certainly not boy; we took nothing, the people gave those books up. The government only formed the firemen in response to the people's wishes. That was thirty years ago now…"

"Sir?"

Beatty smiled grimly. "You're an old pro now, Montag, I think it's time you knew the truth. Remember the great library burnings? You would have just been born, but your parents likely said something."

Montag shook his head; Beatty sighed.

"It's a shame the government wants to keep it all hushed up; we can't change history. They don't even tell the new recruits anymore, and they ought to be the first to know. The fact is, Benjamin Franklin didn't found us, really. He formed the firefighters, who rescued people from fires back before all the buildings were fireproofed. We adopted their nickname, but that's about it. The people rely on us to protect them from, ah, opinions. Errant ideas. They don't have to choose between good or evil, they don't have to be insulted by either and they live in perfect harmony. So no, the Heartless aren't that big a threat to our society—in fact, most often the folks who go missing usually turn out to have a stash of books hidden."

"How did you learn so much about the Heartless anyway?" asked Holden.

"Why, I've been researching them. There were some ancient writings that mentioned the Heartless in the government records. I'm surprised they weren't burned as mythology, but someone did a good job to save them. In fact," he smiled, his candy teeth glowing in his mouth, "would you like to see my library?"

He led them to a door at the side of the room, opposite the entrance. He opened the door and stepped through quickly, leaving the trio outside to follow him.

Apparently, this was for dramatic effect. When they got inside, Beatty was seated at a wide desk covered in scrolls and encyclopedias; these seemed to be his reference work. The rest of room had shelves filling the walls, shelves filled to burst with books.

As soon as Montag recovered from the shock, he turned and cried in disbelief, "But you're the Chief Burner! You can't have books on your premises!"

"And why not, Montag? It's perfectly legal to _own_ books; I just can't read them, and I certainly have no desire to do so."

Montag was still bewildered. Beatty gave a dry smile as he lit a match, taken from a matchbook that read, **GUARANTEED: ONE MILLION LIGHTS IN THIS IGNITER**. He lit a brass pipe and blew out the match. Aster, who couldn't stand the smell of smoke, backed up to one of the bookshelves.

"Poor Montag. I can see this is a difficult night for you. I understand. As you know, our job is, essentially, to kill books, to eradicate them. That is precisely what I am doing here. The books that surround us now, they are all in the process of a very slow death. I don't read them, and therefore give them no life, no hope, no power. They may as well be ashes, for all they accomplish."

Holden joined Aster at the bookshelf and pulled hard on a book, which was stuck so tightly to its neighbors that it made a cracking noise on the way out as the covers detached for the first time in years. It was covered in grime, and blowing on the cover dislodged decades' worth of dust into a big mushroom that wafted through the air.

"You see?" said Beatty. "Ashes."

"Don't take this the wrong way or anything," said Holden, "but it seems to me like you must have loved books once. I mean really loved them."

"Touché!" admitted Beatty. He struck the same match again, then blew it out, struck, blew. "When I was your age, I loved them, devoured them, I couldn't get enough. But as I got older, I came to realize…that the pages…were all blank. They held no answers to my problems, offered no solace, no comfort. They were useless, meaningless. Valueless. And when the last libraries were burned, I was the first to pour the gasoline." He blew out the long-lasting match one last time. "Now then, if you want to hear some of the little tidbits I've dug up…"

Aster and Montag gathered around the desk to listen. Holden tried to return the book he had picked up to its place on the shelf, but there had been so much tension in the row that the books around it had closed on the empty space it had occupied. He tried to force them apart, but he couldn't make enough free space to slip it in. In fact, it didn't even look like a book was missing from the shelf at all. And if Beatty didn't read any of these books any more, how would he notice if one was missing? And if Beatty wasn't going to read his own book…Holden tucked the book into the inner pocket of his hunting jacket. He then joined the others around the desk.

They were looking at photocopies of ancient drawings. They were crude, but Beatty was explaining the story behind them. "But the light _had_ survived—in the hearts of children. They allowed the light to return to the world, and we were at peace ever since. That explains the source of the Heartless. But, of course, they have appeared again, now. I needed a somewhat more…_modern_ work. Which is where this comes in." He produced a waxed scroll, which had some words blotted out by ink, apparently recently. "Don't ask me where this came from, because there's no record of anyone by the name of the supposed author. Probably a pseudonym, but it's a report written by someone claiming the name of Ansem."


	10. Clarisse and Mildred

**Editor's Note:** I am _so sorry_ I took so long to load this chapter. I ran into Midterm Season, and even after that passed, I just couldn't get back on track right away. I'll try to keep up more from now on, but now that Big Fianl Project Season is beginning...things will be better during summer vacation. I promise!

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 10: Clarisse and Mildred

"So…the Heartless." Aster was still completely out of his wits, but now that his enemies were a known entity, not some fairy tale illusion, he felt more confident, at least in that regard.

"Thanks for offering to let us stay at your house, Montag. We sorta had no where to go, I guess." Holden and Aster were following him to his house, winding through blocks of clean, white sidewalk; clean, probably because no one ever walked on it anymore. The morning light washed everything in a pale cast of colors.

"It's no trouble," said Montag. "You seem like such nice boys, I'm just glad I could help you out. Are the Heartless a problem out in the country?"

Aster froze; he wasn't much of a liar, and Montag had caught him at a moment when his mind had been wandering. Fortunately, Holden immediately filled in the answer.

"Well of course there aren't many people out there. Not really. But they are all _good_ people, you know. No wall screens or anything like that. So I mean there aren't many hearts there to take, but the ones that are there are the best kinds."

Montag seemed satisfied with the answer, although as far as Aster could tell, there hadn't actually been an answer in any of what Holden had said. Of course, he wasn't about to point that out.

"I'd better warn you in advance," said Montag, "my wife isn't going to be particularly pleased to find out I've invited you. She isn't what you'd call a people person."

Aster wondered if anyone around here _was_ a people person. It sounded like everyone just sat around and watched that television all day. The firemen seemed active of course, but what were they doing, really? Bullying. Bullying and burning, and certainly not making their victims happy, regardless of the story Beatty had practically force-fed them. And what was it about the firemen that worried Aster so much? Holden had never mentioned them, that was it; in fact, he had seemed more shocked than Aster had been. But how could that be? How could the three of them be living in such different…worlds?

The trio turned a corner and stopped. The last thing they had ever expected to see on these empty streets was a beautiful teenage girl, but there she was. Her face was paled to a healthy glow and her height was on par with Holden's. A soft white dress trailed down to her knees, revealing thin, stringy legs that matched her arms. In her dark eyes was an expression that Montag assumed was surprise, although Aster and Holden recognized it as a calm curiosity, which melted into true surprise when she saw the three boys who suddenly shared the empty street with her.

Montag stepped forward and said, "Hi," in an awkward croak. He cleared his throat and continued. "You must be the new neighbor?"

"And you must be…the fireman." The girl couldn't draw her eyes away from Montag's professional symbols.

"How oddly you say that."

"I would have known with my eyes shut," the girl said timidly.

"Oh—the kerosene? You get used to it after a while." Montag grinned. "It's like perfume to me."

"We must be getting used to it too," added Aster. "I don't remember smelling it for a while."

Holden stepped forward, saying, "Sorry about my friends; they really don't have the best social skills; I'm Holden Caulfield, and this is Guy Montag—that's the fireman—and Aster Holt."

The girl smiled. "I'm Clarisse McClellan. Do you mind if I walk back with you guys?"

"Certainly we don't mind!"

"Come along," said Montag, seemingly in control of himself again. "What are you doing out so late wandering around? How old are you?"

"Well," began Clarisse, "I'm seventeen and I'm crazy…" She and Montag took off along the sidewalk together, leaving Aster and Holden to follow along in a trail of air that seemed both fruity and chemical at once; the girl's aroma making the fuel's stench apparent again. Aster was glad that Clarisse was distracting Montag, and he asked Holden,

"Does anything strike you as strange here?"

"Anything? Try _everything_. The robot dogs, the giant parlor wall TV's—"

"I don't just mean that stuff. All this fireman business. Why haven't I heard about it before? And I assume you haven't either?"

"That's for sure. It's like everyone's gone goddam crazy around here. Or maybe I have…" Holden trailed off. Aster glanced up at the silence in the other conversation, seeing Clarisse craned around to look at them, an inscrutable expression on her face. Aster quietly hushed Holden and continued to walk in silence.

The other conversation resumed. "Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?"

Aster watched the back of Montag's neck turn pale in the already brightened light. "I…I've heard that rumor too…but, uh, no, they-they've always been fireproof."

Clarisse watched him closely for a moment and then uttered, "Strange," before dropping the subject.

"So you're new to the area, Clarisse?" asked Aster. "So are we. We just came in tonight from out in the country."

Clarisse looked backwards, excitement dancing in her eyes. "Have you ever met any of the hermits? My uncle says they hoard books out there in the forests."

Now Aster understood Montag's earlier suspicious questions. "No, I've never seen any sign of them."

Unheeding, Clarisse continued, "My uncle also says that books are magic." Aster and Holden stopped dead still. "That they connect us to other worlds."

"Other worlds? That's ridiculous," said Montag. "How could there possibly be other worlds? And there's no such thing as magic." Aster somehow felt the keyblade, as though it were prodding the back of his mind.

"Then where did books come from? How are they written?"

"They're only a lot of stupid nonsense the authors came up with to cause trouble!" Montag said defensively. "And you shouldn't be asking about them at all!"

Clarisse seemed cowed. "Well…this is my house, so I'd better be going." Clarisse's house stuck out from the wall of suburban copies because a bright light shone out of several windows, while the neighbors were apparently still sleeping. It also lacked the antenna the others all sported on their roofs.

"Why are all those lights on?" Montag asked, dumbfounded.

Clarisse explained, "Oh, that's just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. Are you happy, Montag?"

"Am I what?" he cried.

But Clarisse was already running up her driveway, calling, "Good night!" as she shut the door.

"What a weird girl," said Aster nervously.

"I like her!" said Holden.

Montag broke into a fit of nervous laughter, startling his companions. "Happy! Of all the nonsense." He stopped laughing, and remained downcast until they made it down the road and reached his house. He inserted his open hand into a glove-like compartment next to the doorway, and the door slid to the side. It shut again after the three had entered and the door sensed no more movement. They were in a small hallway, with Montag staring at an air conditioning vent. After a moment, he seemed to murmur, "What?" at the metal grille. He shook himself suddenly and said,

"Well, we'd better get this over with. You guys wait here. I'll wake Mildred and then we'll get everyone introduced." He left down the hallway, opened the bedroom door and slowly disappeared.

As soon as the fireman vanished, Aster whispered, "That girl Clarisse! Do you think she was right? About books being magic? And what she said about another world?"

"It sure sounds like what happened to us, right? Sure it does. It's just like all kinds of crazy crap is happening, and all the people here are goddam crazy, only maybe it's me who's goddam crazy and none of this is even happening—"

"Keep your voice down!" Holden was beginning to get hysterical, and he had almost started shouting. Aster also imagined he had heard something fall in the bedroom and clatter across the floor, but he hoped it was just his imagination. Friend or not, if Montag became too suspicious, they would be taken to whatever kind of prison this place had. The irony of living under the roof of someone he couldn't even trust crashed over Aster. "We've got to try and talk to Clarisse again! She seems to know what's happening to us, or at least her uncle—"

"Mildred!"

Aster and Holden dashed through the hallway and snapped on the light as they entered the bedroom. Montag was holding his lighter over his wife's face.

She was unconscious. Her glazed, open eyes stared blissfully at the ceiling from a blank, pale face.

And on the floor at Montag's feet, peeking from under the bedspread like a dog trying to avoid a punishment was an empty crystal bottle of sleeping tablets.

As if to punctuate the moment, a hideous shrieking of engines and air sliced into the night from the breaking morning outside.


	11. The Best Kept Secret in the Multiverse

Author Note: I think it's been two months since I updated...sorry. Seriously, the end of the year has been...complicated to say the least. I even caught stomach flu, for the first time since junior high I think. Anyway, I have my last two final exams tomorrow (hopefully Mom never reads this, since I should be studying), and once summer rolls around, I should be able to dedicate a lot more time to my story. My plan is one chapter per week, but we'll see how long that lasts.

Also, thanks to Amildor for being the first person to favorite my story. Wish I had updated sooner for you.

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 11: The Best Kept Secret in the Multiverse

When Aster woke up, he wished it had all been a dream. He wanted to wake up to his own room; he had had enough adventures. No more giant cities, no more television, no more Heartless, no more sights like the one he had had last night. The snaking tube that had been fed down the woman's windpipe to suck the toxic sleeping pills from her stomach. The other machine that drained her blood while giving her a fresh supply. Where did they get a fresh supply of human blood? And finally, the uncaring technicians hurrying out the door before the woman had even woken up, saying they had another overdose to attend to, that it was a common occurrence nowadays.

Aster and Holden had left Holden's house early in the morning after a sleepless night, and they arrived in this city as the sun was setting. They had gone more than twenty-four hours without sleep. It was almost noon when Aster woke up, laying in a guest bedroom in a strange house covered in sheets he had never seen, his head on a pillow that did not smell the same as his.

_I have got to stop waking up like this._

"You finally awake?"

"Yeah, Holden. What time is it?"

"Noon. I made you breakfast. Except it's really just a thawed-out sandwich, because that's mostly all they have."

"Thanks. How's Mildred?"

"Oh, Mildred's just _fine_. Doesn't remember a goddam thing about almost _killing_ herself. She's been watching that crazy T.V. all morning. Not a care in the world, and I mean that literally. Listen, Montag went to work, so can we please go visit that girl now? If I have to listen to this lady talking to herself for another minute I'll go insane. And that's a goddam promise."

"Is she that bad?"

"Worst goddam phony you ever saw. So can we _please_ go see the sexy girl now?"

Aster giggled. "All right, but I wouldn't get my hopes up about that."

"Why not?"

"I think Montag noticed how sexy she was last night."

Holden laughed. "Yeah, I thought that too. And you know what? Now that I've seen what he's married too, I can't blame him."

Out in the living room, Mildred did indeed seem to be having a conversation with the television. The three screens formed a three-dimensional image that wrapped around the room. After a while, it was easy to forget which setting you were actually a part of, especially, since the program's script left pauses open for the viewers to interject agreements and exclamations into.

"Hi, Mrs. Montag!" said Aster. "Feeling better?"

Mildred glanced around quickly, as though she had forgotten that other people were in the house. She had a goofy smile, which vanished as soon as she saw them. "Oh, hello," she said before turning back to the screen. Aster looked at Holden in surprise, but he just mouthed, "Told you" and headed for the front door. Passing under the ventilator grille, he remarked that the air pouring from it smelled musty. "It's probably been around Mildred too long."

Mildred didn't seem to hear the door open and close, and continued her conversation with the television.

A few minutes later, Holden knocked on Clarisse's front door. Clarisse opened it almost immediately.

"I knew it was you!" she said. "No one ever knocks anymore."

She ushered them into her parlor. Her house's floor plan was almost identical to Montag's, but the house seemed so much warmer and more personal that it felt completely different.

"My parents are out shopping, and Uncle went for a walk in the park. I wish he was still here; he would have given anything to meet a real keyblade master."

"Wait—what?" But the keyblade, again sensing its part in the conversation, appeared once again in Aster's hand.

"I wish it would stop that."

Clarisse, however, was beaming with energy. "It is real!" she cried. "I mean, Uncle has always told stories about the keybearers, but—to really see one…"

"Hang on," said Holden. "You've heard of that crazy sword before?"

Clarisse started laughing. "You don't have to pretend with me, guys! I know all about it—Uncle told me. You've got no secret to keep!"

"The only one keeping secrets here is you," said Aster. "I have no idea where this sword came from; I got it from a dream. And how did you know I called it the keyblade?"

The smile washed from Clarisse's face. "You actually don't know?"

Aster explained the unusual story of how he got there.

"Now, last night, you mentioned something rather disturbing to us," said Holden when Aster finished. "Would you care to elaborate on that bit about books being portals or whatever? It's kind of important to our problem, so to speak. _Really_ it is."

Clarisse leaned forward in her chair, probably mimicking her uncle without realizing it. "The keybearer is the hero of light, who stepped forward to battle the darkness in eons past when it emerged in the form of the Heartless—"

"Captain Beatty said the Heartless come from people's hearts!"

"That's the form that darkness took back then—taking over peoples' hearts. Uncle doesn't know what's caused them to come back nowadays though."

"Neither did Captain Beatty."

"Anyway, the keyblade master traveled throughout the universe to protect the worlds and their people from the Heartless. There are many connections between worlds, and books are one of those paths. All the connections are supposed to be hidden, but I think your keyblade can open them. See that book-shaped piece?"

The boys looked at the pommel, where Aster's hand passed through a metal outline like a book. "Other worlds?"

"I think your keyblade has the ability to open the paths to worlds represented by books. That means you're meant to travel to them and protect them."

Aster looked despondently at the keyblade. "But…I don't want to travel anywhere. I'm just trying to get back home," he whined.

Clarisse, suddenly sounding very old, said, "I don't think you have a choice."

Aster's mouth turned dry. "You mean…you don't think I can ever get home?"

Clarisse was discouraged now; her uncle had always painted the keyblade master as a gallant hero, ever putting the needs of the universe before him or herself. But this boy was scared, only a child who was seriously lost, and seriously worried. Would the keyblade really force Aster to go on, against his will? Force him to fight? Even—to die?

"I…I don't know," she finally answered with a frown.

Aster fell silent and withdrew into his own thoughts.

"Now wait just one minute!" shouted Holden. "Are you saying we're _inside_ a _book_ right _now_?"

Clarisse, startled, said, "Of course not. Why should you be?"

"Oh, no reason, really. Just that we came here through a book. But I guess that isn't relevant, huh?"

Now it was Clarisse's turn to look shocked. "What! You mean…this world…is a book too? That can't be. This is a real world—we have a history—it's not just some story…"

"Maybe…every world is a book," supplied Aster, speaking slowly. "Maybe there's a book written about every world, just a part of its history. That way every world is connected; somewhere in each one, there's a book about all the others."

"Then that means…my world was a book too." Holden became thoughtful. "Guess it's true, what Shakespeare said: 'All the world's a stage, and its people, mere players.'"

"You've read Shakespeare?" Clarisse asked in clear jealousy.

"Wait! Aster, this is great news! If every world can be reached by a book, we just have to find the one that was written about your world! Then we can go inside…and you'll be home! It's really goddam perfect!"

"It's nowhere near perfect!" Aster yelled. "Look where we are! Books are illegal here! How are we going to find one without Montag arresting us?"

"Easy. We steal one."

"How can we steal one if the people who have them need to hide them from…the…government…what…where did you…?"

With a smug smile, Holden had produced the book he stole from Beatty's study. "It's Beatty's. Couldn't fit it back on the shelf."

Holden stared in dread. Clarisse inched closer to Holden excitedly, awed.

"What? It's not like he was doing anything with it."

"That isn't the point, Holden. If they catch us with that, they'll throw us in prison, and we'll never be able to escape."

Holden shrugged. "If they try to, just use the keyblade to open this book. They won't be able to stop us."

"Or we can leave now." Aster read the cover of Holden's book. "This doesn't sound like my world; I've never heard of either of those. But at least we would be safe, right?"

"Oh, come on, Aster! Let's try to find the book to your world while we're here! We have an emergency exit anyway."

"But how can we find any? They're all hidden or burned."

"Then you have to get to them before they burn," said Clarisse. "Follow Montag. The firemen will lead you to the homes that harbor books."


	12. Fire Engine

"New chapter every week." I am so full of it.

Anyway, as you probably noticed, I grossly overestimater how much time I'll have this summer. We're moving in two weeks, and most of that time will be filled with packing. But the story _must_ go on, and so it shall.

Before I start the chapter, I want to thank Inochi no Fushigi for his (her?) review of my last chapter. I really appreciate the detail you went into; its good to know that someone is really enjoying my story. I'm glad my story feels like the original Kingdom Hearts (I didn't like KH2 as much). Also, I definitely recommend _Fahrenheit 451 _if you still haven't read it; it is the reason I love to read.

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 12: Fire Engine

Captain Beatty did not like the boys Montag had met. He was beginning to wish the Heartless had consumed their hearts before Montag had had a chance to save them.

Beatty wasn't particularly familiar with the order of his bookshelves. Why should he be? He certainly never paid those worthless scraps any attention…but something just seemed different about that shelf this morning…

Was he absolutely sure it was the same shelf the Caulfield boy had disturbed? No. Not hardly.

But was the Captain of the Fire Department really going to take the chance of one of his books being found on some teenager's person?

No. Not hardly.

Montag was playing cards with the other firemen, who were laughing over some ribald joke. It couldn't be a public scene, but Beatty would have to convince Montag to lose his new friends, to turn them in, if need be.

Just then, Holden Caulfield slid into view from beneath the floor.

"What a lovely, charming place," said Holden after he and Aster entered the Fire Department. The room was dark and almost empty save for a great, orange fire truck, a brass pole that pointed up a hole in the ceiling, and the Mechanical Hound resting, dead weight on the floor. "Great company, too."

"Man, look at the size of this truck!" said Aster. "It's bigger than anything on your world." He stopped. "'Your world.' That's going to take some getting used to."

"That it certainly is." Holden peered closer at the fire truck. "Orange? What the hell?"

A burst of laughter from beyond the circle of reddish light revealed the location of the firemen.

"Montag must be up there. But where are the stairs?" wondered Aster.

Holden ran his hand on the cold brass of the pole. "Maybe we can—whauh?" He tightened his grip as the pole started sliding upwards, dragging him up to the ceiling. The pole stopped when Holden was about waist level with the second floor; apparently, he hadn't grabbed hold quickly enough. Glancing around, he saw the Captain with his mouth hanging open, in what could either have been shock or disgust. Montag and the other firemen were playing a card game on a cheap, three-legged table. Holden looked back at Beatty, grinned, and said, "How are ya?"

The card game froze. Beatty turned to watch Montag's reaction, but he just stared along with his comrades.

"Hey, Holden?" exclaimed Aster from the bottom floor. "Are we going up, or am I going to watch the soles of your shoes all day to see if you move?"

Holden realized he hadn't loosened his grip on the pole since it startled him. He reached out for the lip of the floor, forcing his weight over far enough to pull himself up. He called back down to Aster, "Just grab on to it, but grab it quick, so you don't have to do any gymnastics like I did."

Aster hugged the pole a little more closely than Holden had. It shifted him upwards, far enough this time that he could jump off onto the second floor. Once both boys were out of the hole, they stood in a room filled with a hostile silence.

Beatty broke it. "Well, Montag, aren't you going to introduce everyone?"

Montag looked at Beatty like a child caught sneaking sweets; Beatty returned the stare critically. Montag continued to fumble, trying to explain. "These, well these are, uh…these are…"

Fortunately for Montag, Holden could think on his feet. "Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Montag," he said with an apologetic air, "but we wanted to thank you again for saving us the other night." The firemen stirred, still giving Montag questioning glances, so Holden went on. "Those Heartless would have killed us, and we wanted to apologize for being out late and putting you in danger." That did it. The firemen lost interest almost immediately, turning back to their hands. Sensing an opportunity vanishing, Holden pushed his luck and said, "It really made us think it would be nice to, you know, see what you firemen did at work. So what do ya say? Can we have the grand tour?"

"Young man," said Beatty, "this is a fire station. We aren't exactly open for tours. Therefore, I would—"

The alarm sounded.

Before Aster and Holden identified the bell in the ceiling as the source of the brazen chiming, the firemen had all single-mindedly pushed past them to the hole, where their weight and the automatic pole carried each other down into the dark room below. Holden grabbed Aster's hand and pulled him after them.

Beatty stayed just inside the engine's door and waited for his entire company to get inside. Montag was last inside.

"Montag, you forgot your helmet!"

"Have it right here," said Holden as he and Aster stepped into the vehicle.

Not thinking, Captain Beatty shut the door as Montag fitted the helmet. When he turned around, he was almost surprised to see the boys standing there, Holden with a broad grin and Aster trying to match it with difficulty.

"We really appreciate this, sir," said Holden, with a grateful and serious expression on his face.

The engine of the great machine rumbled as vibrations from the motor made the fire truck tremble. Beatty closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Fine, fine," he said, "just take a seat, and don't touch anything."

"Be sure to put on your seat belts," added Montag, who was strapping himself in. The great beast emerged from its cavern and lumbered out into the road.

"Seat belts?" asked Aster. "I don't think this huge thing can go fast enough to—"

The fire engine lurched into the city streets and accelerated. Holden and Aster hit the floor as a shrieking siren announced the presence of the firemen to the surrounding neighborhoods.

"Yes, it can," said Montag as he helped Aster into a chair. "Of course, something this size can't go nearly as fast as the civilians' cars you see on the freeways."

Beatty bent down and helped Holden up, putting his hand on the side of Holden's jacket. Holden brushed him off and sat in a chair.

"But what if someone's in the street?" Aster questioned. "Will they be able to get out of the way in time?"

"If they can't hear the siren coming, they must be deaf," answered the fireman on the steering wheel.

"What if there _is_ a deaf person in the road?"

The driver didn't answer.

Aster turned uncomfortably to Montag. "Do the people who keep books usually try to escape?"

"No. In fact, a lot of them are crazies who try to fight us to save their books. It's ridiculous."

The fire engine lurched around a corner.

"Then, what was the alarm for?"

"To alert us to a possible collection, of course."

"Yeah, but why the rush?"

The engine lurched again.

"To show up as fast as possible and get rid of the books immediately."

"But if they don't run away or try to hide their books, what's the point of racing out on a call?"

"The point, Mr. Holt," interrupted Captain Beatty, "is that books are the weakness of society. Our government does not want to show weakness."

This speech was followed by a silence filled only by the grumbling of the machine.

An instant later, it was also filled by the shrieking of another set of jets roaring through the air.

"We heard some of those airplanes our first night here," said Holden, turning away from Beatty to conceal his slight sneer. "They sure don't sound like passenger airlines to me."

"They are military jets," responded Beatty.

"Oh? At war, are you?"

With a question in his eyes, Beatty said, "Yes, Mr. Caulfield. _We_ are indeed at war."

"With whom?" Holden somehow managed to sound like he was talking to an English professor.

"With another country."

Holden mocked an expression of shock. "Gosh, really? I mean _what_ country? The _name_—"

"The name isn't important!" exploded Beatty. "The country isn't important." The entire group lapsed again into an embarrassed quiet.

The fire engine ground to a halt, throwing everyone forward.


	13. Such a Candle

Lucky number thirteen is finally ready. I spent about half an hour letting Bookmasters wallop me in first person so I could write this chapter...I wanted to get this one posted today; you see, I'm moving from Phoenix to Peoria next week. I'm running out of things to pack before my books (read: reference materials) get boxed up. I need to plan how the rest of this world plays out, anyway...

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 13: Such a Candle

Beatty's squad abandoned the engine and flew towards the door of the huge, old house, moving with machine precision and concentration.

"They sure get caught up in their work, don't they?" commented Holden.

"Yeah, but that gives us a better chance at grabbing a book when they're not paying attention." The boys followed the firemen while Captain Beatty kicked in the door. Arriving inside, they saw the other two firemen grasping a woman by the arms as though she were dangerous. Beatty stood menacingly before her as she swayed slightly in their grip. She murmured dumbly under her breath.

Beatty slapped her without remorse. He demanded, "Where are they?"

The woman's wandering eyes came to rest, almost benignly, on the Captain. "You wouldn't have come if you didn't already know."

Grudgingly, Beatty fished in his pocket for a small card, a telegram.

Have reason to suspect attic; 11 No. Elm, City.

E. B.

The lady blankly gazed at the card. "Mrs. Blake," she said, "my neighbor."

"Let's get 'em, men!" Beatty sounded like an army general; he charged up the stairs with his unit following, Montag in the back. Beatty pulled down the trap door to the attic, the ladder unfolding at his feet.

The woman seemed to have left their minds. Aster ran to her side.

"Come on, quick!" he whispered. "Run while they're busy with your books!"

The woman cast Aster a serene smile. "They won't be getting my books today," she said, her voice emanating an eerie calm. "I already know how to stop them."

"Not to spoil your plans or anything," offered Holden, but they're kind of going to, you know, _arrest_ you."

"No, they cannot."

Montag was about to start up the ladder when the first assault of books and magazines rained onto his helmet. Flinching, he stopped climbing and guarded his face with his hands. A book fell into his arms; he instinctively grabbed it, but threw it down right away. Another book replaced the first. He looked up guiltily into the face of Beatty staring down at him.

"Don't just stand there, you idiot!" The captain glanced downstairs, and anger distorted his face.

Aster was asking the woman about her collection. "I'm looking for a particular book."

"What is its name?"

"I—I don't know. But I need to find it!"

"It doesn't matter, Aster," Holden said. "The firemen are all over those things; we'll never be able to get to them today."

Captain Beatty called down from the third floor, "What are you kids talking to her for? She's a criminal, for God's sake!"

Holden turned to Beatty and was about to correct his usage of the word "kids" when a glowing circle formed between him and Beatty. The orb pulsed with black shadowy tendrils and purple energy. Out popped a little man floating in midair, wearing a striped blue robe and a funny green hat. The little creature held its hands over a dark purple book with brown bindings that closed over the covers like claws. The book dwarfed the little man. The front cover bore the insignia of the Heartless. Three more dark orbs released a similar passenger in a ring around the woman.

"Trade ya places, Montag!" yelled Holden as he jogged up the stairs. Montag, his body tensed up, slipped past him in the opposite direction.

Calling forth the keyblade, Aster swung futilely at the Heartless. After the first strike, the creature floated lazily upwards, out of reach. Aster crouched, then leaped into the air, smacking at the Heartless again. This time, the monster reacted by closing the book and hoisting it over the shoulder. Aster stared, unable to imagine why, until the Heartless spun itself around in a circle to bring the spine of the book crashing onto Aster's forehead. Aster dropped to the wood floor, dazed. For a moment, he thought he was seeing things, with a big red ball of light burning before his vision.

"God, Aster, wake up!" Montag's voice brought Aster's mind back into focus, just in time to realize the ball of light was actually a fireball. He forced himself to turn over onto his hands and knees and rolled away from the fire. It left a grey scorch mark in the paneling. Montag unleashed flames onto the Heartless that had tried to burn Aster, and the creature perished in the blaze, releasing a heart that wound its way up to and through the ceiling.

Irrationally, Aster thought, "_those are spell books._" He got to his feet and warily watched the other three. One was crossing its arms; a little yellow curl of hair sticking out the front of the hat was glowing with sinister light. Pages in its book flipped of their own accord, and when the Heartless opened its arms with the hands spread over the book, a ball of flame appeared at the point where the tops of both pages met.

"I'm ready this time!" taunted Aster. The flame floated through the air towards him; when it got close enough Aster swung the keyblade at the fireball, deflecting it back at its conjurer. The ball passed straight into the Heartless' book, with a wet dissolving sound.

"Why's it protected from that fire," asked Montag, "if mine killed its friend?"

"Your fire is chemical," explained Aster, "but those things are magical, and their fire must be too."

The Heartless that had just attacked crossed its arms again, this time releasing two fireballs to dog Aster and Holden.

"Jump!" ordered Montag, and he and Aster dodged in opposite directions, letting the fire singe the floor again. A tiny spark ignited, and a small flame began to grow from the paneling.

"Enough!" Beatty shouted. He and the other firemen came downstairs, bearing armloads of books and kicking more down the steps in front of them. Holden followed them sheepishly, carefully avoiding the books dropped by his temporary companions. "We'll let the Bookmasters finish this job. Men?"

The firemen dropped their loads at the foot of the stairs and turned a nozzle on the side of each flamethrower. Kerosene gushed from the hoses, covering the pile of books in what could have been water, but for the smell.

The woman climbed the pile and kneeled down, soiling her dress with the cold gas. "You can't ever have my books."

Captain Beatty slapped her again, sneering, "Well congratulations. You've climbed the damned tower of Babel." He turned and marched to the open front door. "You all know the pattern. They always try suicide."

"Wait," Aster called to the Captain's retreating form, "they'll take her heart!"

Beatty glared over his shoulder. "She's broken the law. What more do you expect? We're due back at the House."

The small flame had expanded its radius, crawling across the floor in all directions. It reached the wall, singing the protective covering and crackling indignantly at the impediment against its progress.

Montag placed a hand on the woman's arm. "It's okay. You can come with us."

"No, thank you."

"You've got to come _now_," offered Holden. "You've just _got to_."

"I will stay with my books."

Aster watched the Heartless descend on the woman as he and his friends backed up to the door. The fire was burning across the room, sending tongues of flame to taste the environment. It must have liked the flavor, because it crawled onwards, inching towards the papers soaked in poison.

"Please, please!" Aster cajoled her. "The Heartless—they're going to—to kill you…"

The woman stood up again. "The firemen can't ever have my books. The Heartless can't ever have my heart." The Bookmasters drew up behind her, hair glowing, arms crossed. The burning floor swallowed up more and more open space. The woman reached into her pocket and produced a simple match.

"Oh, God," whispered Montag.

The three dashed for the door, where the other firemen watched the scene with vulgar interest. Aster, who had expected to be enveloped in flame at any second as he ran, turned back to look at the proud woman from her doorway. She had turned to the Heartless and was addressing them, even as balls of flame materialized at the tops of their books, even as she struck the match against the stairs' railing.

"'Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.'"

The fire was mere inches from the pool of kerosene.

The Heartless released the fireballs.

And the woman dropped the match.

Aster was flung backwards by the force of the rolling heat. The door sagged as the top hinge was ripped apart. Holden and Montag dragged Aster away from the house that did not itself burn, though it was filled with burning things.

Three small hearts were freed from the wreckage and silently left the world.

"It's not burning?" asked Aster, who seemed to be partially in shock.

"All houses are covered in fireproof sealant," answered Montag, who then turned to Beatty. "What did she say about Mr. Ridley?"

"A man named Latimer said that to a man named Ridley on October 16, 1555, while they were being burnt alive at Oxford for heresy."

Montag pulled Aster onto his feet, and they all walked back to the engine. Montag couldn't help but stare in wonder at his own hand, which, just as the Heartless arrived, had snatched a book and hidden it in the fire retardant jacket.


	14. Reading

Another huge span between chapters...again...this time, the pathetic excuses range from "I moved to another city," to "I was getting settled into my dorm at college." I should also mention I was reading a new story for an upcoming plot twist...

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 14: Reading

It was still early evening as Montag led the way home. A half-hearted drizzle fell from wasted storm clouds, tinted orange by the sun just preparing to set. All three travelers stared at the glinting cement ahead, walking slowly; all were preoccupied by inner questions. As Clarisse watched them approach her, her spirits flagged and she forgot about the object in her hand. She kept her eyes on Aster, hoping that he would signal success. When he finally looked up, his eyes gave away his answer before he could shake his head. But when Montag saw her, his eyes brightened. He asked hesitantly, "What are you up to?"

Clarisse looked up at the fiery sky. "The rain feels good. I love to walk in it."

"What have you got there?"

Clarisse looked at the forgotten flower. "A dandelion. One of the last of this year I guess. Have you heard of rubbing it under your chin?" She did so, leaving behind yellow fluff. "If it rubs off, it means I'm in love. Am I?"

Montag couldn't help but look. "You're—you're yellow."

Clarisse giggled, smiling again. "Now let's try you!" Before Montag could stop her, she had lightly brushed the flower against his chin. "How sad. You aren't in love with anyone at all."

Montag looked insulted. "I am! I love my wife! I'm very much in love." The other three could hear the hollowness of Montag's words. Holden looked at Aster and raised his eyebrows. Aster knew his friend was mocking Mildred.

"I'm sorry," said Clarisse. "I've made you angry."

"No, it's nothing."

"Please, forgive me. I don't want you to go away mad."

"I'm just upset."

"Please. I have to go."

Montag looked up. His eyes met Clarisse's, and both pairs were filled with tears.

"You're peculiar," he said, "but you're easy to forgive."

She smiled. Then she turned to Aster and Holden, holding up the dandelion.

"Pass," said Aster. Holden shook his head.

Clarisse ran off down the sidewalk, a smile on her face and tears drying on her cheeks, washing a pattern through the pollen on her chin.

Montag rubbed at his tears, then turned to Aster and Holden, who said, "She sure is a nice girl, isn't she?" This only made Montag look more worn out than before. He turned away from them without a word and led the way home.

Mildred was in the living room again, the walls talking to her.

"Yes, something must be _done_!"

"Well let's not stand and talk!"

"I'm so mad I could spit!"

"What's everyone angry about?" Aster interrupted the walls.

"I can't say," said Mildred, watching the walls as if they would supply the answer. "Wait around and see."

"We'd love to, really, but we can't." Holden pulled Aster out of the living room back into the front hallway. As they left, Montag began to ask his wife where and when they had first met.

Holden pulled the stolen book out of his jacket and shoved at Aster like it was covered in fire ants. "Let's go. Now. Please?"

"But what about finding my home?" Aster whispered.

"The only way to do that is to hang around the Captain again. And I don't like to be near those flitty-type guys. I can't stand them."

"Wait—what?"

"That goddam Captain. When I fell down on the fire truck, he was grabbing my shirt, feeling over my chest. That kind of perverty stuff has happened to me like twenty times since I was a kid. I can't stand it."

"Hold on, Holden. How did he grab you?"

"On my side, like this."

"The book!"

Aster shouted the word, and he and Holden glanced into the living room to see if Montag had heard. The parlor walls sent unnatural colors dancing across the floor as a huge racket filled the air.

"So, Beatty is on to us."

"Right. He was searching me for it. So it's time to go."  
"Wait a minute, Holden. Something's not right. If he knows we have the book, why hasn't he come for us yet?"

"Because he probably knows if he calls us on this, we'll blow the whistle on where we found the little beauty."

"He said he wasn't doing anything illegal."

"Then why the hell's he keeping it such a secret? Montag didn't know before we did, and he sure seems smarter than the rest of those firemen."

"Good point. Then we should figure out a way to implicate him."

"I have a better idea. It's called _leaving_."

"Are you kidding? We can't just leave. Look how messed up this world is."

"That's why we should _leave_!"

"What about Montag?"

"What _about_ him?"

"Um…well…for starters, he's looking at us…right…now."

Holden turned around. "Oh."

Montag had the strangest fire in his eyes. He stepped up to Aster and took the book from him. Montag stared at it for a few moments, then reached into his coat. He produced another book, and held the two of them next to each other, one in each hand.

"You too?" he asked. Holden and Aster stood stunned into unblinking silence.

"Mildred? Would you come here for a moment?" He turned to two chairs keeping each other company on the wall. He placed his book and Aster's carefully on one chair, then pulled the other over to another part of the wall. He stood on it and reached up to the ventilator shaft. He pulled off the brass faceplate as Mildred arrived. She saw the books on the chair, but just watched them curiously, as though waiting for them to do something, for Montag to reveal the explanation for this strange situation. Montag reached into the ventilation shaft, stretching out his arm. When he revealed it again, it had retrieved another book. He dropped it to the floor. He reached in again and pulled out two more. Again and again, until the two books on the chair were complemented by nearly twenty in a heap on the floor.

"I should have told you before, Millie, but I wasn't even letting myself admit it. I've put away books, now and then, for the past few years, but never new why."

"Montag," Mildred moaned. "Montag." Her breathing was choked, sobbing. "Montag." She grabbed the books from off the chair and ran for the kitchen.

"Mildred! Stop her!" The three ran to the kitchen, where Montag stopped Mildred before she could toss the book into the garbage incinerator.

"Don't burn it!" shouted Aster. "We need that book!"

"Millie! You have to stop! I need to look at these books, at least once, I need answers. You and I, we're in such a mess! I'm not happy, and I don't think you are either! So please, Millie, if you love me at all, just give me two days, one day! That's all."

Holden gently pulled the books from Mildred's pale, weakening hands. He brought them to Aster and showed him the book Montag had taken from the old lady's house. It was bound in brown leather, with the title worked on in shining yellow letters meant to mimic gold leaf. The letters were partly scratched off, but the name, _Holy Bible_, was still legible.

Mildred stared at the books, ready to bolt if anything dangerous should happen. "What if the other firemen find out? They'll come here and burn us!"

"We'll be fine, lady," said Holden. "I took this from the office of Beatty himself, and he hasn't done a damn thing about it."

"From _Beatty_?" said Montag, somewhat taken aback. "And you think he knows?"

"I sure _hope_ he does," Holden shivered.

"But I'm more confused now. Who are you two? And, have you been reading books?"

"Oh, well, we've definitely read our share of books…" Aster started, and then looked at Holden.

He nodded. "He's one of us now."

Aster nodded back, and said, "Montag, there's a lot we haven't told you. Books contain more than just answers. They contain the doorways to other worlds."

"Yeah, and that's where we're from—and why we were so confused when we got here. I'm from a big city, but our gizmos and things aren't quite as fancy as the ones you've got here."

"And I'm from a small town, but it's not even as advanced as Holden's. Actually, that's why we tagged along with you tonight. We're trying to find the book that will lead back to my home world."

"Amazing! But, how did you leave your world to begin with?"

"Let me tell you about a dream I had…"

During the hours that followed, Aster told Montag his strange tale. Holden told the parts that had happened through most of his world, and Aster thought he did a pretty good job of narrating; he even digressed into little stories from his past that Aster hadn't known. Sometime in the middle, the blare of the parlor walls announced that Mildred had returned to her real family. The three friends continued talking, however.

At the end, Montag said, "I once met a man who may have answers for both of us, Aster." Then he picked up a book and started to read aloud.

No one heard the scuffling sound outside the door, or saw the greenish glow lost in the darkening blue sky.


	15. Villains, of a Sort

_**Literary Hearts**_

Chapter 15: Villains, of a Sort

It had happened. Right under his own nose, the one thing he never thought possible, the thing he had _safeguarded_ against. But worst of all, the only one who could help him, was…_him_.

Captain Beatty sat at his desk, glancing through the sketches of Heartless, the diagrams detailing emotions of the heart and the head, and the descriptions of various connections between worlds, both the ones the keybearer had no doubt used, as well as the corridors of darkness that the Heartless used.

The ones that Beatty had used before.

It had been just after the Heartless had first appeared. He had begun to research a way to get rid of them, forever. He learned about their means of travel, and through his investigations, accidentally opened such a path. On the other side, he learned the truth: that the Heartless were not the true threats.

And now, the true threat had surfaced.

Beatty concentrated on the image before him, a stylized Heartless symbol done in watercolor on the page before him. He flipped the cap open on his lighter, closed it again. Over and over. Doing so had helped the first time.

The portal arrived faster than ever.

It opened in the air before him, a swirling focus of energy that uncoiled like a serpent—or like a salamander—in the space above his desk. A black emptiness that called out to him, like a warm bed when you've been out in the rain all night. Beatty closed the lighter, climbed from his chair to his desk, and stepped inside the shadow and left his own world behind.

Inside the darkness, Beatty saw the space around him as a path in a dark city, illuminated by the smoldering remains of books. They lined the path; not the sidewalk, but Beatty's path, as he was swept onwards by some invisible power. He couldn't help but look around and see the titles, ones he had been so familiar with, years ago. He felt a small pang of regret, because even after all this time, some small part of his heart still felt the beauty that books had once given to the world. He also recognized the city; it was _his_ city, as he remembered it, before all the technological innovation had driven the people's minds to mush.

But he repressed this last thought, telling himself that the people were happy now, and letting that meaningless statement resonate in his mind as another black circle opened in his path and accepted him, bringing him back to the first world beyond his own he had ever visited.

Again, the smell of agriculture that filled this place reminded Beatty of one of the old supermarkets, with the refrigerated aisle filled with vegetables and fruit. But it was still a stagnant smell, a corruption mixed with the plant life and soil.

"Your return was shewn to me in a dream."

Beatty was again startled by the boy's appearance. He couldn't have reached his tenth birthday, yet his voice had the intonations of a much older man. It wasn't a deep voice, simply…aged, somehow, scratched. The boy's hair was a premature white, his forehead and cheeks showing lines like those of a face decades older.

They were in a bedroom that probably hadn't been slept in for years. The rug was turning a dirty yellow, as was the peeling wallpaper. The windows were stained with grime, and the mirror behind the dresser shattered. The bed was made, its dark blue covers not quite concealing the darker stains where blood had dried.

"You…you were expecting me?"

"He knew of your return."

"I see."

"And so, you have witnessed another enter unto your world. An outsider."

"Yes, and he's one of the kind you warned me about, a keybearer."

"Ah," sighed the boy, "and he hath brought ruin to your world, just as the ancient prophecies foretell."

"Well, yes! He's broken the law! And, and he's turning one of our own men against us!"

"And have you yet killed this bearer?"

"Killed?—I can't just kill him without reason."

"'The keybearer shatters peace and brings ruin.' You just said he broke your laws. Is that not reason enough?"

"The law he broke would get him imprisoned, at best."

"No mere door can contain he who bears the key."

"I know, I know! But besides, it could be bad for me, if he admits where he got it."

"From you, you mean? You have broken your own prized laws? The corruption of other worlds never fails to impress and disgust me." Far from disgusted, the creepy child was smiling smugly.

"I have done nothing wrong. I would never break the letter of the law."

The boy's gaze turned menacing. "And what of God's law?" He spoke with a force that was chilling. A threat was in his voice, there was a line Beatty dare not cross, but he had little idea what it might be.

"Look, kid, I just came for some damn advice! Are you going to give it to me or not!"

"Watch your language, old man," the child growled fiercely.

Beatty rubbed his eyes. He never should have returned. "Well, what did your _dream_ tell you?"

"Many things," the child gloated. "It shewed me that your Montag has betrayed you, though you already suspected as much."

Beatty said nothing. He had never mentioned Montag's name to this child.

"I have seen also that this keybearer must fall."

"What do you mean?"

A cunning look came entered the boy's eyes. "I mean he will die, or he will fall to darkness."

"You're certain of this?"

"Nothing is certain but the will of God. The boy will resist us. Therefore, it now falls to you to end his life."

"Because if he falls to darkness, he will become more destructive, right? More worlds will be in danger?"

The boy leered. "Of course. He must die, or he will be lost." The boy cleared his throat. "It is the great paradox of the keyblade master. He must interfere in the worlds plagued by Heartless. How else can he stop them? Ah, but _how far_ shall he go to this end? Suppose a villain in this world or that is controlling the Heartless? Shall he go out of his way to stop that villain? Perhaps. But suppose the threat of the Heartless is ended before that of the villain. By all rights, he must leave when his appointed work is done. Very rarely, however, does he do so. He remains, he meddles. The outsider stays to assist the hero. In this manner he does change something to which he had no right. Each world must tend unto its own flock.

And that is not the end. Suppose the keybearer becomes truly involved in some particular world? Falls in love, perhaps? What, Captain, should happen then?"

"All right. I see your point. But, what about the keyhole? If the Heartless—"

"What about safety?" countered the boy. "What of your people's happiness? Better to suffer by the Heartless than by an intruder."

"But the Heartless are intruders too!"

"I say to thee, they are NOT!" thundered the boy. Beatty could tell the shout was not from anger, but from zealous belief. He stood with his legs spread, his face raised to the heavens. "In every heart is darkness. In every world is darkness. The Heartless, then, are a natural part of every world, of the entire multiverse!"

Beatty had had enough now. He was about to open another portal of darkness and return home, when the boy grabbed him by the wrist and stared solemnly into his eyes.

"Please, destroy the keyblade master. End his reign of terror and misery, before it starts. This He told me to tell you. This…" the boy's dark eyes smiled humorlessly. "And one other message."

Beatty didn't have time to react before the knife was pressed against his wrist. Both knew that if the boy cut him now, he would likely bleed to death before he could get back home. A small voice in his mind whispered sadly that no one would care, either.

"Thou must never return to this place again, outsider. If ye do so, ye shall be killed upon sight."

Beatty's face was drawn inexorably to the bed, its cloth unabashedly showing the patches of blood. His throat dry, he asked, "Who—who were those poor bastards?"

The young child smiled proudly. "Their identities matter not to you. Know only that they became vain and slothful, like the others. And so, I slew them according to His will. Now be gone, lest you join them."

The boy raised his hand, and Montag was flung backwards, narrowly missing having his wrist slit by the knife. Flung backwards, and when he should have hit the bedroom wall he continued, down another corridor of darkness. This one was not a city filled with books burning mercifully, but dozens of connected bedrooms, each filled with a human skeleton or two, grinning apologetically from under the covers as he swam past.

He landed in his armchair with a thump, stirring up dust and his research notes. He waited about five minutes before moving, then clumsily lit his pipe. As the smoke caressed his lungs, he decided he would never again experiment with one of those portals. He could not however, ignore the lesson he had just gained from this most recent journey.

Other worlds were dangerous. The people who lived in them were dangerous.

And a person from another world was traipsing about in his own right now.

That creepy little boy was right. The Heartless aren't so bad; at least they're a known entity. But a strange person from another world? With the power of the keyblade at his side?

Aster Holt had to be killed. Immediately.

EN: How's that little plot twist suit ya? Hm...Technically, I should be citing the character's creator...but I think Mr. King will allow me a little leeway for the sake of suspense, don't you?


	16. Fear and Love

AN: Well, the school year's almost over, and I've gotten one more chapter finished before winter break started. I'm later in posting this than I should be, but this chapter wanted a lot of editing work for some reason, especially the paragraph at the end. I'm still not totally satisfied with it, but the world must go on, and you've all been waiting so patiently...

_**Literary Hearts**_

_**Chapter 16: Fear and Love**_

_It is almost a year before Aster will come to this world, and Montag has come across an old man sitting in a public park. The man is dressed in an old-fashioned black suit, like lawyers or businessmen used to wear. Montag is only there for a walk, but when the man senses he is no longer alone, he quickly hides something under his dark coat._

_"Wait!" Montag cries as the man jumps up, ready to run._

_The old man freezes, but begins to shake with fear. "I haven't done anything!"_

_As Montag sits down on the bench, he reassures the man, "No one said you did."_

_The odd couple sits in the silence of the awkward moment for a couple of minutes before Montag tries to start a conversation._

_"The weather…it's been pretty nice lately, huh?"_

_The man looks at his companion with a pale face. Tentatively, as though he is working up the courage to pet a rattlesnake, he answers, "It—it has been nicer this year, yes."_

_Encouraged, Montag holds out his hand and offers his name._

_"Professor Faber. Just Faber, I mean." And Faber shakes Montag's hand._

_"Professor?"_

_Faber glances nervously into Montag's eyes before explaining, "Forty years ago, I was an English teacher at Swarthmore College."_

_Montag can't help but be impressed. Even a firefighter recognizes the name of the last liberal arts university to close. Only a brilliant man would have been kept on the faculty right up to the end. Despite the stigma associated with scholars, Montag finds himself in a pleasant conversation with Faber for nearly an hour. Then Faber says this:_

"'Are you a fool, stranger—soft in the head and lazy too?

Or do you let things slide because you _like_ your pain?

Here you are, cooped up on an island far too long,

with no way out of it, none that you can find,

while all your shipmates' spirit ebbs away.'"

_Montag thinks that this sounds a bit like poetry. And Faber, his hand on his coat pocket, now says,_

"'The extravagant and erring spirit hies

To his confine; and of the truth herein

This present object made probation'"

_Now Montag is certain that if he reaches into Faber's pocket, the old man will be too paralyzed to resist. And Montag will reveal a book of poetry._

_Montag does not reach out. Faber waits a moment, waiting for Montag to do what he knows the fireman must be thinking, then slowly gets to his feet when Montag does not act._

_"I don't talk _things_, sir. I talk the _meaning_ of things. I sit here and _know_ I'm alive."_

_H e writes his name and address on a slip of paper and holds it out to Montag._

_"For your file, in case you decide to be angry with me."_

_"I'm not angry."_

"Mr. Faber, someone's calling, Mr. Faber…" The voice of Faber's telephone ringing sounded in Montag's ear. The earpiece clicked as Faber answered.

"Hello, Professor Faber? It's—it's Guy Montag? We met in a park about a year ago?"

Faber's voice, nearly forgotten, returned to Montag's ear. The phone gave it a metallic intonation, but the same dogged fear as before was audible in the old man's tone.

"Montag. The—the fireman?" Faber paused, steeling himself for how the conversation might end. "Yes, Mr. Montag?"

"I have a rather odd question, Professor." Montag read the title of the book Holden had taken from Beatty. "How many copies of that are left in the country?"

"What? I don't know—I don't know what you're talking about!"

Montag looked at some of the other books crowded around him. "What about books by Doyle, or Homer? Burroughs? Becker? Leroux? Jefferson? Plato?"

"I can't just talk, can't just, say, anything—"

"What about—what about the Holy Bible?"

"You're trying to trap me! This is unfair, you've no proof!"

"I just want to know if there are _any_ copies left. Anywhere in the world?"

"None! You know this as well as I! None!" Faber hung up.

Montag put the earpiece back into its slot in the wall and gathered the stack of books in his arms and carried them back into the hall. He passed behind the couch where Mildred sat, laughing with the parlor walls. She didn't notice him, or maybe was ignoring him, and Montag was grateful, for once. He paused to watch her, the woman he loved, who sometimes seemed less than human nowadays.

"Well, there's still the problem about the rooms, Charles," said one man on the screen, a handsome fellow with wavy brown hair.

"Well, what rooms are left?" said the other man on screen. He had beady eyes, magnified by thick-rimmed black glasses whenever he turned towards the camera. "There's the pink room; we could always put Lillian in the pink room."

"And we could put Susan in the green room."

"Yes—"

"Where could we put Monica?"

"Yes, what could we do with Monica?" This sounded like a leading question, and the man with the glasses did in fact turn to look directly at Mildred, his enlarged eyes staring blankly out of the pixels that made up his image. "Do you have the answer, Mildred?"

Montag nearly jumped backwards. This had to be some new feature, some interactive program. Indeed, as soon as the question was asked, a small red dot formed in the air above the glasses-man's head, pulsing dully. Right on cue, Mildred blurted out, "In the blue room!" She was reading her lines from a script which must have been printed out with the week's program guide.

After her words registered with some internal sound detector, the glasses-man turned back to wavy-hair, saying, "Mildred, you're right."

"She's right!" his companion said excitedly, but somehow, without real interest.

Both men turned to face the camera again. In unsmiling unison, they said, "Mildred, you're absolutely fantastic."

And then the credits began to roll, lost in a wash of colors and horns and drums. Montag continued into the front hallway, more disturbed than he had ever been in his entire life.

"…so Edgar Marsalla lets one rip right in the middle of Ossenburger's speech, and old Thurmer, our headmaster, you could tell he heard it, _boy_—" Holden stopped talking as Montag joined them.

"It sounds like I've done my job well," Montag said sadly as he handed Holden back their book. "Most of these are—well, damn rare, at best."

"So, who were you were calling?" Aster asked.

"The someone who can help us both. He's a teacher—or he was."

Holden huffed and mumbled something.

"A university professor, one who, I hope, will be able to teach me what I'm supposed to understand from all these books, what I'm missing from my life. But I also think—no, I know that he's harboring books, and maybe—"

"Maybe he'll have one about my world!" cried Aster. "Great! Let's go!"

"Great," muttered Holden. "We get to pay a visit to some goddam teacher."

"What's the matter?" asked Aster. "It's not like you're one of his students."

"Yeah, well I _was_ hoping we wouldn't run into any. They always talk down to you, like they know some big secret about life and you don't, because you're just some kid."

"Well, we can't stay here forever, Holden. Getting my book from this Faber guy is the only way we can go back home."

Holden crossed his arms. "Maybe I don't _want_ to go home, if you know what I mean."

"Holden—"

"Boys, please!" Montag interrupted. "I need your help with this! Faber is afraid of me. If you two come with me, he'll trust me more easily because you obviously aren't firemen." He sat down in the chair he had stood on earlier to show Mildred his hidden books. "So please, just come see him with me? You can do what you want after that, but I don't think Faber will ever talk to me otherwise!"

"Of course, Montag!" said Aster.

"I don't know…"

Aster frowned at Holden. "Holden, if you don't go back home, you'll never see Phoebe again. And if you don't, she'll know it's because you gave up trying to help me!"

Holden glared at Aster for a second, then sighed, looking tired again. "I couldn't do that to her. She would be so disappointed…You're right. I have to go."

Mildred swept into the room. "Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Bowles are coming to watch the White Clown later tonight. Will you boys be joining us?"

"Sorry, Millie, but we have an errand to run. This book, you see, it's the Old and New Testa—"

"Oh! Don't start that up again, Montag! You're going to get us all burned!"

Montag tightened his grip, almost bending the Bible's cover. "Mildred…Does the White Clown love you? Those men you were talking to earlier? Do they all love you very much? Do they love you more than I do?"

"Why would you ask me such a silly question?" Mildred blinked stupidly.

With tears in his eyes, Montag turned to the front door and turned the knob.

AN: The flashback scene was described vaguely in _Fahrenheit 451_, so I thought I'd go into more detail with it for a change of pace. the poems Faber recites are from Homer's _Odyssey_ and Shakespeare's _Hamlet_, in that order. I chose those lines because the first passage sounds like a description of Montag, while the second sounds like Faber hiding with his books. The scene with Mildred and the television is a reference to the old _F451_ movie; the scene can be seen by searching "fahrenheit 451" on youtube; it should be at or near the top of the list (look for "LINDA! favorite clips" under the title (and no, I don't know why they changed Mildred to Linda for the movie)).


	17. An Ear to Listen

Literary Hearts

AN: Don't worry, I didn't die. I was very lazy over winter break, thinking I would go back to work on Literary Hearts during the school year. Then at the beginning of the semester, I caught some kind of SUPER FLU, which was immune to my usual treatment of "sleep lots" and actually deprived me of speech for a couple weeks. I actually had to buy medicine! It took me a while to get back on the horse after the SUPER FLU was vanquished. Now that this chapter is up, the next ones should follow quickly; we're nearing the end of Fahrenheit, which means the exciting fight scenes are coming up...

_**Literary Hearts**_

_**Chapter 17: An Ear to Listen**_

Holden said, "Hi," when Faber opened the door.

Faber was a frail old man, and little else could describe him. His arms were bony, the skin bagging around his wrists. His hair and even flesh were almost completely white, giving him a ghostly air as he peered out from the dark entrance of his home. Even his blue eyes were faded like the knees in a pair of jeans. Montag thought that perhaps his meeting with Faber in the park a year ago had been the old teacher's most recent trip out of the house.

After a moment, Faber smiled at Holden and returned his hello. His gaze passed over Aster and fell on Montag, and the smile was gone.

"I haven't done anything wrong!" he protested.

"I have," Montag said, and held up the Bible.

For one instant, Faber's eyes were the eyes of a much younger man, showing a love and a longing that seemed much stronger than the timid body that carried them. The fear returned immediately and swept the street behind the visitors. "Put that away! Get inside!"

The three hurried inside. Faber firmly closed and locked the door behind them. Then he closed his bedroom door, through which Aster had gotten a glimpse of wires and tools.

Faber came to Montag's side. "The book—May I?"

Montag reluctantly handed the Bible over. Faber began to leaf through the pages.

"How did you get this?"

"I stole it."

Faber looked Montag in the eyes. "You're brave." He looked at the book again. "I've never been a religious man, but I've missed this." He lifted the book until the point where the pages met was just under his nose. Faber inhaled deeply. "Do you know that books smell like foreign spices?"

"I don't mean to interrupt," said Aster, "but I have to know. Do you have any books here?"

Faber clutched the Bible to his chest. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"I need to find one."

"What book?"

"I—I don't know what it's called." Aster gulped. "But it…" He didn't know how to explain and stopped.

Faber sighed and led them to his living room, which, Montag was relieved to see, was only four plain walls without a single television screen in sight.

"I do not have any books here, young man. You are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, long ago, but I didn't say anything, for fear of seeming like a fool. But now, it is too late to change things, and I stay silent for fear of being burned. Being foolish no longer seems so terrible." Faber paused. "Why have you brought this to me?"

Montag answered. "I need to understand what I'm reading in books. I know they must have something important in them, but I need to know what."

"What makes you so certain of that?"

"So many things are going wrong—in my life, and in the world. The woman I married is gone, and there's an empty thing now that sits in the parlor and sleeps in my bed. I—can't even remember where I met her…But I know for sure that books are something that's missing, so…"

"So naturally that must be what everyone needs?" Faber chuckled lightly. "It's not books we are missing today, Montag, it's the things that books once had in them. The same things could be in the parlor walls or the seashell radios today. There is nothing magical about books."

Aster and Holden exchanged quizzical expressions, but stayed silent.

"There are three things society is missing today, things that books and other things once contained." Faber placed the Bible squarely in front of him, on the coffee table. He stared at it for just a moment, like he was trying to remember a lecture he had given many years ago. "The first is texture."

"What do you mean by texture?" asked Aster.

"Detail. Life—life inside the book. The details of life that people in this city, in this country, are afraid of. They don't want to see themselves in a mirror; they want to see simple, candy-cane faces. They want distraction from their own lives. They want to forget.

"Second is leisure time."

"Seems like the people around here have nothing _but_ goddam leisure time," Holden interjected. "Other than the firemen, nobody ever seems to be working at anything important."

"We have time for leisure in excess, yes," responded Faber. "But very rarely do people use it to think. They watch television; they race down the streets at a hundred miles an hour. They hear advertisements and music and noise everywhere, but they never have the chance to process it—it is simply accepted, and mankind becomes that much more like the cows in the pasture.

"Lastly, and most important, we must have the freedom to act on what we have learned from thinking about the texture of the world. We do not have that freedom." Faber hung his head.

"Who says we don't?" Montag looked at Faber intensely. "I can get books. You must know of some old printer, or publisher, who would be—"

"Oh no!" Faber leaped up and turned to the wall. After a moment of his visitors sitting in silent shock from his outburst, he explained. "My friends, you must understand, I want to do something, and I want to make a change. I want it so much it hurts. But just as much, I don't want to be burned." He faced them again. "I want to live."

"That's a life without any texture," Holden said darkly. "Like you said before. You say you love books, but you care about yourself more. You're nothing but a phony."

Faber's face grew even paler. "Even when we had books," he said slowly, "even when we were free, society still chose to devolve into what it is today. You can't guarantee anything we did would make a difference. But it is certain we would be burned if caught."

"What if we printed books, then hid them in firemen's houses and turned them in?" suggested Aster.

"We would need to do it nationwide to have an impact. We just don't have the manpower ourselves, and no one we can trust entirely."

"So you say do nothing?" Holden fumed. "Sit and wait for—for what? Nothing is going to change."

A flight of bombers screeched through the air overhead, as if they had heard the conversation and interrupted to insist that change was coming; it was literally on the wind.

"There, you see? This country is flinging itself to pieces. Let us stand out of the way as it disintegrates."

"Wouldn't it be better to stop the disintegration?" asked Aster.

"As I have said, there is nothing we can do."

"What if we had a fire captain on our side?"

Faber laughed. "That would never happen."

"I'm not so sure." Aster turned to his friends. "Remember all those books in his house? And he still hasn't turned in an alarm about the one you took, Holden."

"He knows I have it, since he grabbed me to look for it…but if he's not going to arrest us for that, why didn't he just ask for it back?"

"He couldn't, remember? The other firefighters were around."

"Are you telling me the fire chief is keeping books?" asked Faber. "Incredible. I never would have believed it." He paced behind the couch for a few seconds. New hope had made him stronger already. "Then we may actually have a chance at this plan of yours. But I have to be sure. If he already knows you have a book, you may be able to get him to reveal his true colors."

"I'm afraid," admitted Montag. "Five minutes alone, and he could talk me back into burning like none of this ever happened."

Faber looked at his bedroom door. "You won't be alone." He started for the door, beckoning his visitors to follow.

Inside, the desk and dresser were covered in wires, batteries, pliers and tweezers, plastic casings and number and letter keys. "In the absence of books, I have had to keep my mind busy. I have made many new sorts of devices, none of which are marketable in this age." Holding a tiny pad with an LED screen in his palm, he said, "No one is interested in a television this small today, but I prefer it." Putting it down again, Faber continued, "But that does not mean I have made nothing of value." He opened the top drawer and took out a cardboard box that had previously held mints. He cupped his hand and poured the contents into it like he was getting ready to eat them. But the items that fell from the box were green plastic, and whorled like the pattern of a snail shell. One side of each contained a circle of five tiny holes, with another hole in the center.

"Those look like my wife's seashell radio."

"A radio can only speak. Mine can listen." Faber inserted one of the plastic objects into his ear like a hearing aid as he held his hand out for the others. After everyone had a radio in their ear, Faber backed into the corner and whispered, "You see?" very quietly. Montag, Holden and Aster heard perfectly.

"That's amazing!" cried Aster.

"Not so loud, will ya?" complained Holden. "I'm standing right next to you!"

"We can all talk to each other through these?"

"Yes, and hear others our friends are talking to besides." Faber shook Montag's hand. "Now we can decide together if your captain is trustworthy. You'll have to forgive my cowardice, but I don't want to expose myself. Not yet."

"Hold on to the Bible while we're gone," Montag said. "Just in case."

"I'll keep ours," said Holden from out in the hall, his voice coming through the ear buds clearly. "If you don't mind."


	18. Different

Literary Hearts

Author Note: ...Yeah. It's been...how many months? I don't...really have any excuse for that...I've just been working on other things, and neglecting my story and, by extension, my readers. So, I apologize for the long wait. Fortunately, we're almost at the end of _Fahrenheit_, so I'll be working with new material soon, which will hopefully get me back in gear.

_**Literary Hearts**_

_**Chapter 18: Different**_

"And Konstanty winds the pitch…Another strike! Even without Roberts, the Whiz Kids are sure giving the Yankees a—"

"Um, Holden?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop that."

"All right, I guess. But only because you asked so nicely."

_"I take it you've been watching film records of old ball games?"_ Faber's voice flitted through the group's ears, a ghost listening through a peephole.

"Old games? Yeah. Sure. Real old, yeah."

_"I wonder if you could bring any of those games over someday? It's been a long time since I've seen any. All the old sports…they seem to have vanished in the last few decades."_

"Bring…the games?" Holden thought for a moment. "Well I would really love to, only they belong to my grandpa. And my grandma just died, you see."

Montag looked at Holden with shock, but Aster waved his hand at the former fireman without looking away from the sidewalk ahead.

Holden was still talking. "So now he spends all his time watching all these old videos and things up in the attic. It's the only thing keeping him from going nuts, I guess. So I really can't take them away from him, you know what I mean?"

"_Of course!"_ Aster could picture Faber's pale cheeks blushing in embarrassment. _"I—I'm sorry, I didn't know."_

"Oh, it's all right. I mean, she was getting really old. I mean, they both are and all. And Grandpa just spends all his time in the attic."

"And, here we are!" Aster was eager for an excuse to change the subject. The grey, boxy firehouse was just ahead, its garage yawning open to greet and swallow the trio.

Inside, Montag pointed out, "the Hound is missing."

"_Funny,"_ Faber said. _"I thought I heard a scratching outside, just after you left."_

"Do you think it's the Hound?" Aster asked.

"_I hope not, because if it was, it's after you. The sounds stopped a while ago."_

Montag studied the street outside. It was empty as always, both of real and artificial life. "No sign of being followed. Still, I wonder where it is. I've never thought about that before: what does the Hound do when it's not here or chasing someone?"

"That dog machine is a little too alive for my tastes," shivered Aster. "Let's just get this over with. Are you ready Faber?"

"_Ready to risk everything by trusting a group of strangers? No. Never. But go on anyway."_ So Aster placed his hand on the brass pole and up he went, followed by his friends.

Captain Beatty stood just to the left of the pole, as though he had been expecting someone to arrive. The other firemen were again gathered around the card table, playing Canasta.

"Montag." Looking very casual, Beatty flipped his lighter open and watched his subordinate from under thick eyebrows. "Heard about the loss in your neighborhood today." He shrugged. "Shame."

"Loss? I haven't heard."

Beatty scrutinized Montag closely, as if to ask where he has been today.

"The girl. Family moved to your street recently." Beatty waved his hand as he searched for the name. "McClellan." He closed the lighter.

Montag didn't respond right away. "You mean…she's died?"

"That is precisely what I mean."

"What?" Aster was forcing himself to stay calm on the outside, but internally, he was near panic. Clarisse had been his only source of information about what was happening to him. "How?"

Beatty waved his hand again, as though the story of Clarisse's death was a bothersome pest, buzzing the air around his head. "Run over by a car. Teenagers these days drive around at upwards of a hundred miles per hour. You know the billboards now are hundreds of feet long out on the freeways? The drivers don't have time to read them otherwise."

Faber whispered, _"It's true. I rarely go driving anymore because the traffic is almost impossible to get through safely. In some places, it's not even safe to go down the sidewalk."_

"That's ridiculous!" Holden said out loud.

"Well," Beatty responded, "the salesmen must get their advertisements out somehow. It's only natural really."

"Clarisse," Aster said quietly. "She…"

"She was…" Holden tried to finish.

"She was…different." Montag looked up into Beatty's eyes, hoping his own didn't show any tears. "How did that happen? How does someone become so…different?"

"Here or there, someone like her is bound to occur. Her family did a lot to undo what was taught in the schools. Her uncle had a criminal record; antisocial. Her school reports show she wasn't popular, with teachers or students. She always wanted to ask _why_ rather than _how_."

"_He seems to remember her quite well now, considering he could barely remember her name when this conversation began."_

"Yeah," said Holden suspiciously.

"Oh? You knew her?"

"No. I mean yes but not really. Not really from school I mean. But I knew her, yes."

Beatty looked confused, but continued. "Anyway, a person can become very unhappy asking _why_. That girl is better off where she is."

"You said her uncle had a criminal record." Montag was eager to distract Beatty from Holden's out-of-place responses. "Did he have books?"

"A few false alarms were called on the family in Chicago, but no books were ever found."

Montag paused for a moment to consider how to start the conversation. Holden took this opportunity to do so himself.

"So about all those books in your house."

Captain Beatty dropped his lighter. The Canasta game turned toward its leader as a single unit. One player started to get up from his chair, his expression showing that this was the most interesting thing he had heard in a month, and maybe a year.

Beatty smiled at the firemen vaguely. "I keep a sarcophagus at home filled with dried, old mummies. I like to see how they decay." The firemen continued to stare. "Sit down, damn you!" The half-standing fireman sat back down quickly and the players held their hands closely.

Beatty stooped down to pick up his lighter before turning back to Holden, wearing a smile that could ignite coal—or paper. "What about them?"

"Oh, we were just wondering about them is all. Like where you got them. And what you think of them."

"_Careful."_

"I told you before, boy. I have had most of them since before I was your age. I keep them as a reminder of how much they failed me in my time of need. And I think of them—" he frowned at Montag, "—as firewood. Or worse. Just like every good fireman."

"_This isn't working."_

"You think?"

"Excuse me?"

"You think you'll ever read any of them again?"

No one at the table had played any cards in a while.

"That would be against the law, wouldn't it boy?"

"Oh, I know that. The law and all that. I'm just asking between friends." Holden smiled warmly. "You know what I mean."

Beatty finally, actually got angry. Aster was sure the Captain was about to call Holden a word very different from friend when the bell in the ceiling cried out again. Beatty leaped over to the left wall and pulled a small note printing from the telephone apparatus. The motion was swift and automatic; Aster couldn't even remember seeing this during the last alarm. "Sit down, men."

The firemen from the table were about to reach the pole when Beatty said this. "Go on, now. Montag and I can handle this assignment. You boys come along, too," he added as he slid down to the garage. Aster looked at Holden, who shrugged and jumped down the hole; Aster followed soon after. Montag was the last to leave the room, aware of the stares prodding at him from the card table.

"Can I drive?" Holden had to ask.

"I think not," Beatty replied perfunctorily. He had already strapped into the driver's seat.

As Montag sat down at a window close to the front of the fire engine, but far from Beatty, he asked, "You're driving, sir?"

"I certainly am."

"But you never drive."

"This is a special case. I don't mind taking the ol' Salamander out for a spin tonight."

That Beatty didn't usually drive the massive engine seemed evident by his driving style. He weaved and lurched, sped up on a whim and never seemed to bother to slow. It made the boys' earlier ride in the machine almost comforting by comparison.

Montag whispered very lightly to Faber. "I can't do this again. I can't go back to burning, knowing what I do now."

"_You can't give up the game just yet, Montag. Even after all these decades of burning, there are still books to be found. Burn what you find tonight, and we can find ten times that many by this time next year. But only if your Captain doesn't discover our situation."_

The Salamander's massive wheels complained with a screech as Beatty brought it to a wrenching stop. "We're here!" he cried triumphantly and stepped down to the sidewalk.

Montag trembled as Aster and Holden followed Beatty outside. His hand seemed unwilling to release its clench on the seat.

"Ummmmm…" Aster's voice snapped open Montag's hand. "You might want to come out now Montag."

Montag slowly stood and rounded the corner to the door. He lowered himself down, his gaze on the sidewalk at his feet.

"Montag?"

Montag looked up, seeing the fright in Aster's eyes, the nervous glances of Holden, and Beatty, gazing serenely at Montag with a somewhat cracked smile. And behind them all…

"Why, we've stopped in front of _my_ house."

Author's Note: Holden is referencing the 1950 World Series at the beginning of this chapter (_Catcher_ was published in 1951), so it would be a very recent game to him. Would the 1950 Series be the same on both worlds? Hell if I know. I had to fix that sentence so many times before it even made sense...


End file.
